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POEMS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND 


OUR      COUNTRY 


BY 

JEFFREY  W.  POTTER 


M 


»    »»'>'» 


BOSTON 
JAMES  H.  EARLE,  PUBLISHER 

178    WASHINGTON    STREET 


Copyright,  1S99 
By  JEFFREY  W.  POTTER 

All  risrhts  reserved 


PREFACE. 


The  author  would  most  respectfully  say,  that  after 
mature  consideration  and  with  a  degree  of  reluctance,  he 
has  consented  to  present  to  the  readers  and  lovers  of 
poetry  a  few  verses  and  sentiments  he  has  long  cher- 
ished as  essential  to  good  citizenship,  and  which  he 
hopes  may  be  found  worthy  the  attention  of  readers  of 
this  volume. 


914503 


CONTENTS. 


Roger  Williams         .... 

Roger  Williams  Visiting  Canonicus 

Narragansett  Bay      .... 

Massasoit  Visiting  the  Plymouth  Colony 

Dr.  William  Henry  Hazard 

Judge  Elisha  R.  Potter    . 

The  South  Kingston  Soldier  . 

The   Burial  of  a  Revolutionary  Soldier  at  Annie  Boo 

Castle 

My  Birthplace  Scenery     . 

Seaweeding  at  Rocky  Point 

A  Revolutionary  Story     . 

Richard  Henry  Lee 

Franklin  at  Matunuck      .         . 

Commodore  Perry's  Old  Home 

Colors  of  the  American  Flag  . 

Washington  Elm  in  Boston,  Cut  Down  in  iS 

Benedict  Arnold        .... 

New  England  Voices 

America     ...... 

Our  Revolutionary  Dead 

An  Evening  Scene    .... 

The  Blue-bird  Singing,  Feb.   17,  1S94 

Ocean  Shore 

Liberty's  Bell  en  route  for  Atlanta  Exposition,  1S95 
Scotland's  Immortal  Bards 
Columbia  in  the  Coils  of  a  Leviathan 
Washington  in  1750 
The  Patriots  of  1776 


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CONTENTS. 


Our  Ship  of  State 

The  Oak  Tree  Planted  at  the  Two  Hundredth  Anniver 

sary  of  King  Phillip's  Death,  Mount  Hope,  Aug 

24,  1S76      .... 
Tash-tash-uck  and  His  Country 
John  Brown       .... 
Gen.  John  C.  Fremont     . 
Not  Shoot  the  Eagle 
Our  Constitution 
Washington      .... 
America's  First  Battle  at  Lexington 
Daniel  Boone    .... 
Hudson  Discovering  the  Highlands 
Immortal  Virginians 
The  Mind  of  Man    . 
Abraham  Lincoln 
Beautiful  Days 
A  Summer  Hour 
Massasoit  .... 

Washington  at  Prayer 
Lincoln  at  Gettysburg 
The  Indians'  Royal  Burying-ground  in  Charlestown,  R.  I 
A  Gull  on  Black  Rock,  Rocky  Point,  South  Kingston 

Springtime  Memories 

Each  Mind 'a  World 

Hawaii 

Washington  and  the  Constitution    .... 

Washington  Upon  the  Battlements  of  American  Liberty 

The  Birthplace  of  Lincoln 

Tempest  of  Jan.  25,  1893 

South  Kingston  Before  the  Division 

Sheridan's  Arrival  at  Cedar  Creek 

General  Grant,  en  route  for  Mount  McGregor,  Passing 

West  Point         .... 
The  American  Soldier     . 
Spring's  First  Sunset,  1894 
Liberty  Address  to  the  Patriots  of  1775 
The  Pen  of  Longfellow    . 


CONTENTS. 


th  Elba,  N.  Y. 


Ticonderoga,  1775     . 

John  Brown's  Monument  Raised  at  Nor 

July  21,  1S96     . 
An  Ode  to  Spring     . 
Mind  in  America 
The  Thought  of  Old  Age 
Eternity     . 

Statue  of  Columbus  Unveiled  in  Chicago 
Massasoit's  Arrival  at  Newport 
Our  Assassinated  Garfield 
The  French  Assisting  America 
The  Patriotism  of  Lafayette     . 
The  Sword  of  Washington      . 
The  Staff  of  Franklin      . 
Some  Thoughts  for  the  Future 
The  Laboring  Man  .... 
Boys,  Buy  a  Home    .... 
Battle  of  Rhode  Island,  Aug.  29,  1778 
Father  at  the  Battle  of  Stonington,  Aug 
Our  New  Navy  .... 

Potter's  Pond 

Grant  at  Fort  Donelson   . 

Slavery      

Loss  of  the  Steamship  Columbus,  Jan.  18,  1884 
Loss  of  the  Schooner  John  Paul,  Feb.  10,  1893 
The  Lifeboat's  Return  to  Point  Judith,  from  a  Gale  of 

Wind,  18S5 
Winter       .... 
My  Old  Hoe      . 
Our  Continent  . 
Our  Presidents 
Lincoln  Coming  to  Illinois 
The  Heartbroken  Slave  Mother 
Lope  de  Aguirre's  Most  Desperate 

Daughter,  Fearing  She  Might 

of  His  Pursuers 
The  Mother  at  the  Crucifixion 
Our  Nation's  Designment 


14,  1813 


Act  in  Stabbing  His 
Fall  into  the  Hands 


113 
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M5 

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160 
162 
164 


CONTENTS. 


The  World's  Progress,  Beginning  at  the  Birth  of  Wash 

ington         ..... 
Washington  with  the  Fate  of  America 
The  Union  Should  Never  Dissolve 
National  Election  Day      . 
The  American  Independence 
The  Ax,  Plow,  and  Spade 
My  Mother's  Robin  . 
The  Whip-poor-will 
IJenjamin  Harrison,  iS86 
Autumn   Winds 
The  Planet  Saturn    . 
Grant's  Burial  Honored  by  His  Foe 
Liberty's  Visit  to  the  Family  of  Nations 
The  Burial  of  Grant,  Aug.  S,  1SS5  . 
The  National  Flower 

Our  Best  Men 

The  Indian's  Return  to  His  Birthplace 

An  Address  to  the  Egyptian  Obelisk  Erected 

Park,  N.  Y. 
The  Wonders  of  Etna 
Our  Old  Ship  Constitution 
The  Stranding  of  the  Kearsarge 
Rivers  of  Narragansett     . 
Samuel  T.   Perry 
Rowland  G.  Hazard 
Lincoln  Leaving  Illinois  . 
John  Bright       .... 
Napoleon  Bonaparte 
Independence  Days 
My  Mother's  Birthplace  . 
Speech  of  Logan,  a  Mingo  Chief 
Sitting  Bull        .... 
The  Fall  of  Wolfe,  Sept.  13,  1759 
John  Ericsson  .... 

Our  Flag 

At  General  Sherman's  Funeral 
Lincoln  Entering  Richmond     . 


in  Centra 


POEMS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND  AND  OF  OUR  COUNTRY. 


ROGER   WILLIAMS. 

RHODE  ISLAND'S  founder,  O  how  great 
Was  his  good  soul  for  man  in  thralls  ! 
A  million  shafts  to  cloud-land  raised, 
A  million  songs  to  give  him  praise, 
Could  never  tell  the  story  all. 
'T  was  midnight,  and  the  soul  was  chained 
By  royal  mandate  stern  and  long ; 
But  Freedom  and  great  God  proclaimed 
Such  was  a  universal  wrong. 
He  brought  no  bow  nor  saber  sheathed 
As  his  protector  with  wild  men  ; 
But  all  alone  while  winter  breathed, 
He  landed  with  his  boat  and  pen. 

The  new  world's  continent  from  dreams 
Was  waking  to  the  rosy  morn  ; 
But  angry  clouds  were  thickening  fast 
Like  harvest  skies  before  the  blast, — 
And  was  it  night  or  really  dawn  ? 
The  sorrows  of  the  old  world  homes 
Had  blighted  all  the  minds  with  fear, 
Until  an  exiled  life  becomes 
A  paradise  in  forests  drear ; 


lo  POEMS'  VF  AEIV  ENGLAND. 

v"'  <■  Vr!  <^    r.  ./">  0 rr—^''; — ^^~''' 

No  cannon  frowned,  nb  fortress  gate, 
No  friend  but  God  upon  the  shore. 
The  mighty  Williams  dared  his  fate 
To  savage  hands,  with  pen  and  oar. 

Nature's  wild  children  loved  to  see 

The  peace-clad  harbinger  appear ; 

For  instinct  taught  their  hearts  that  day 

To  show  great  mercy,  and  obey 

The  teaching  of  a  spirit  dear ; 

They  knew  not  him,  but  God  w^as  there 

To  shield,  protect,  and  guide  the  hour ; 

For  'tw^as  a  germ  'neath  heaven's  high  care, 

Which  should  give  beauty,  grace,  and  power. 

No  conquering  arms  attend  the  scene. 

No  banners  wave  from  shore  or  cliff; 

But  mightier  forces  lay  serene 

In  him  who  brought  the  pen  and  skiff. 


ROGER  WILLIAMS  VISITING  CANONICUS. 

THE  winter  winds  had  crisped  the  leaf 
And  buried  all  the  fields  in  storm, 
W^hile  in  the  wigwam  sat  the  chief 

In  peace,  at  home,  contented,  warm. 
While  proud  New  England's  noblest  boy 
Was  without  shelter,  food,  employ. 

The  monarch  turned  his  eyes  and  saw 
A  pale  face  on  his  forest  lawn  ; 


THE  NARRAGANSETT  BAY. 


No  bow  nor  implement  of  war 

Was  in  hand,  so  young  and  strong ; 
But  peace  was  on  that  gentle  face 
And  bosom  warm  for  human  race. 

That  royal  hand  of  manly  deeds 

Soon  took  the  stranger's,  cold  as  snow. 

And  gave  to  him  the  many  needs' 
That  life  requires  in  days  of  woe. 

And  sheltered  him  from  storms  and  strife 

And  for  a  nation  saved  his  life. 

But  when  the  new  year's  spring  was  born, 
iVnd  sunny  winds  refreshed  the  hills. 

He  set  forth  with  a  purpose  strong. 
With  everlasting  truths  to  fill. 

And  planned  the  building  of  our  state 

And  guarded  round  its  infant  fate. 


THE   NARRAGANSETT    BAY. 

THOU  deep  blue  waves  of  classic  worth, 
When  centuries  roll  their  many  rounds, 
For  tales  told  when  the  nation's  birth 
Was  giving  life,  for  here  the  hearth 

Where  mighty  deed  was  born  with  honor  crowned. 

The  little  bay  that  opens  up  our  state 

To  pleasant  shores,  and  islands  fair, 
Bares  to  their  honor  certain  fates. 


12  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

Which  makes  our  land  happy  and  great 
And  has  among  our  victories  full  its  share. 

These  waves  that  steal  from  ocean  wide 
And  ripple  round  those  rock-based  isles, 

Once  bore  the  man  whose  bark  did  glide 

For  refuge  o'er  its  gentle  tide 

From  men  more  dangerous  than  the  Indians  wild. 

He  moored  beside  a  grove-bound  coast, 

All  silent  there  in  winter's  wood  ; 
No  one  to  welcome  but  a  host 
Of  savage  men,  and  he  almost 

Famished  for  want  of  shelter  and  of  food. 

With  that  big  heart  from  whence  we've  drawn 

The  inspirations  which  have  spread 
The  nation  o'er,  that  man  is  born 
With  freedom.     Then  let  conscience  form 

The  right  of  way  that  he  to  God  be  led. 

A  century  later  did  that  awful  fleet 

Frown  with  such  vengeance  on  thy  waves, 

That  freedom  ever  more  must  greet 

For  our  good  allies  made  complete 

That  victory  which  sunk  our  tyranny  in  graves. 

Green  islands  fair,  deep  harbors  blue, 

Where  once  great  ships  of  battle  lay 
Where  once  a  heart  with  purpose  true 
Rowed  through  the  storm  for  me  and  you, 
That  made  immortal  Narragansett  Bay. 


VISITING    THE   PLYMOUTH   COLONY.      13 

Yes,  Narragansett  Bay  !     Its  name 

Must  live  forever,  and  how  bright 
It  lives  in  history  and  fame. 
Where  Roger  Williams  seeking  came. 

And  lo,  a  city,  where  he  moored  that  night. 

That  mighty  heart  so  full  and  warm — 

I  must  repeat  his  deeds  of  zeal ; 
A  Nation's  honor  rests  thereon. 
Our  Christian  joys  to  him  belong, 

A  world  it  teaches  and  a  world  will  feel. 


MASSASOIT     VISITING     THE    PLYMOUTH 
COLONY. 

T  T  THEN  this  old  Indian  king,  so  good, 
V  V      Had  heard  within  his  neighborhood, 

Some  men  had  come  from  sea. 
With  gracious  heart,  with  mind  elate. 
He  hastened  on  to  see  what  fate 

For  him  and  them  might  be. 

'T  was  winter  both  in  skies  and  field. 
And  deep  the  frozen  drift  concealed 

The  paths  his  woodland  o'er; 
But  heart  of  good  to  lend  a  hand 
To  those  upon  the  ocean  strand. 

He  hastened  to  the  shore. 


14  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

He  saw  beneath  the  naked  limb 

The  moose  which  noticed  not  its  king  ; 

The  deer  slow  bounded  on  ; 
The  rugged  bear  with  voice  so  loud 
Of  winter's  snowbanks  felt  as  proud 

As  would  the  summer's  storm. 

The  bearskin  round  his  shoulders  spread, 
The  eagle  wing  adorned  his  head ; 

His  feet  in  fur  were  warm  ; 
His  belt  was  wide,  't  was  of  the  deer, 
His  right  hand  bore  his  battle  spear, 

His  tomahawk  undrawn. 

So  came  the  king,  his  lordly  look 
To  every  trusting  pilgrim  took 

The  sense  of  no  mean  soul. 
With  broken  accent  and  with  sign 
His  personage  he  did  divine, 

Also  the  shores  control. 

He  proffered  friendship,  and  the  grace 
Within  the  pilgrim  heart  found  place 

Sweeter  to  them  than  gold  ; 
His  royal  blessing  bore  them  up 
Till  springtime  brought  the  buttercup. 

And  hillside  flowers  unfold. 


Old  Massasoit's  bow  that  night 
Was  to  those  seaworn  men  delight 


His  memory  must  be  well, 


VISITING    THE  PLYMOUTH   COLONY.      15 

For  without  his  endearing  hand, 
His  wish  to  live  upon  the  strand, 
What  sorrows  might  befell. 

Who  would  to-day  the  journey  make 
A  life  would  he  for  ransom  take, 

With  half  the  prey  in  sight ; 
But  Massasoit,  lost  to  fear, 
Defied  the  winter  moose  and  deer 

With  that  stern  heart  of  might. 

The  waves  dashed  on  the  Plymouth  shore, 
In  breezes  cold  the  echo  bore 

To  him  in  woodland  vale, 
He  knew  before  the  sunset's  gold 
Was  for  the  dying  day  unrolled 

His  journey's  end  would  hail. 

His  eager  eye  from  hilltop  far 

Soon  caught  the  anchored  ship  and  spar, 

Appeared  a  thing  of  life ; 
And  then  the  fathers  of  our  praise 
Together  caught  his  awful  gaze 

In  more  than  mortal  strife. 

Wearied  and  sick  and  cold  and  sad. 
They  saw  the  savage  and  were  glad ; 

For  strength  and  hope  were  low. 
They  knew  his  mien  and  step  were  well. 
For  instinct  many  times  will  tell 

Who  is  our  friend  or  foe. 


1 6  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


DR.     WILLIAM     HENRY     HAZARD, 
DIED  AUGUST    4,    1894. 

SOUTH   Kingston  bows  before  Jehovah's  will, 
To  thank  his  name  which  gave  the  mighty  soul 
Who  threescore  years  with  more  than  mortal  skill 
Has  lived  to  save  and  destinies  control. 

We  take  the  reed  to  fathom  or  survey 
The  seas  or  empire  of  his  usefulness. 

But  all  is  lost,  like  mist  before  the  day. 
And  generations  stop  only  to  bless. 

Our  oldest  men  whose  locks  are  wintered  o'er, 

Speak  of  his  worth  in  those  glad  morning  hours 
When   they  were   boys.     For   then  those  deeds  in 

store 
Began  to  deck  his  path  like  new-blown  flowers. 

And  all  along  his  glorious  march  of  life, 

We  hear  his  worth.     As  pearls  upon  the  sand 

When  new-born  waves  roll  in  from  ocean  strife. 
So  every  household  has  his  memories  grand. 

His  years  go  down  into  the  lap  of  praise, 
Volumes  will  fail  his  mercies  to  record ; 

The  poor  man  home,  the  harvest  of  his  days 
Will  from  his  Maker  get  the  sweet  reward. 


JUDGE  ELISHA   R.    POTTER.  17 


JUDGE    ELISHA    R.    POTTER. 

RHODE  Island's  sincere  heart  now  bleeds 
To  part  with  him  so  rich  in  deeds 
To  those  deserving  grace. 
May  his  high  post  be  filled  as  must 
By  one  whom  we  shall  learn  to  trust, 
For  great  indeed  the  place  ! 

We  've  seen  the  sympathetic  tear 
Well  out  towards  one  young  in  years, 

Who  had  much  evil  done. 
The  mother's  heart  was  in  the  case, 
And  always  mothers  have  a  place 

Towards  the  wayward  son. 

Our  dear  old  Judge's  heart  did  yield, 
With  all  the  powers  of  state  to  wield, 

In  the  behalf  of  tears. 
Reason  and  right  and  law  and  power 
Were  his  to  weigh  upon  the  hour ; 

But  reason  was  more  dear. 

A  hundred  stories  from  the  heart 
Might  some  within  the  state  impart, 

Where  mercy's  hand  was  seen. 
He  graced  his  ermine  and  his  trust. 
As  only  God's  great  servants  must, 

In  moments  so  supreme. 


1 8  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


THE    SOUTH    KINGSTOWN    SOLDIER. 

SOLDIERS,  we  have  a  country  new, 
Well  stored  with    patriotism  true 
From  age  to  age. 
But  see  its  noblest  deed  in  you, 
In  battle's  rage. 

How  could  our  country  e'er  have  been 
A  land  of  liberty  for  men, 

LTnless  you  'd  fought ! 
The  sword  must  come  before  the  pen 

When  truth  is  naught. 

These  battlements  of  peace  and  law 
Are  but  the  fruits  of  cruel  war. 

Where  sires  and  sons 
Have  died  on  battle-fields  afar, 

And  victory  won. 

No  backgrounds  then  brave  men  for  you. 
No  shadows  lengthening  in  the  view, 

But  all  is  morn. 
Not  half  the  praise  your  rightful  due 

To  hearts  is  born. 

To  count  the  agonies  yet  past. 
Or  try  to  tell  of  dangers  vast. 

Is  out  of  power. 
A  day  would  build  a  history  vast 

And  even  hours. 


THE  BURIAL    OF  A   SOLDIER. 

Stop  all !     Reflect  their  work  was  great, 
Their  lives  stood  ransom  for  the  state, 

And  won  the  day. 
Hold  nothing  back,  for  truth  is  weight 

And  brave  were  they. 


THE    BURIAL     OF     A      REVOLUTIONARY 
SOLDIER    AT    ANNIE    BOO    CASTLE. 

WAY  down  in  local  history 
There  bubbles  up  a  strain 
That  children  of  old  neighbors 
Have  heard  over  again. 

It  was  the  solemn  burial 

Of  one  both  old  and  gray, 
Who  thrice  fought  for  his  country. 

And  three  times  w^on  the  day. 

For  when  the  last  great  enemy 

Was  marshaled  on  the  plain. 
His  hosts  of  manhood  and  of  strength 

Did  fall  among  the  slain. 

And  fast  the  sorry  note  of  death 

Had  spread  o'er  fields  and  hill. 
That  Uncle  Joe,  so  brave  in  strife, 

A  soldier  grave  will  fill. 


20  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

The  glories  of  his  victories 

Were  not  so  bright  as  now ; 
Yet  laurels  for  his  destiny 

Were  placed  upon  his  brow. 

For  time's  great  hand,  with  thankful  heart, 

Will  see  that  all  is  well, 
And  generations  yet  will  rise. 

Their  stories  long  to  tell. 

The  old,  old  neighbors  of  his  time 

Could  not  appreciate 
So  well  of  Uncle  Joseph's  worth 

As  fifty  years  more  late. 


ow, 


But  all  his  neighbors,  high  and  1 

Made  it  a  holiday. 
Their  loyal  sympathy  to  show 

Towards  their  soldier  gray. 


It  was  when  fields  and  hillsides 
Were  burnished  with  the  gold 

Of  autumn's  many  tints  and  shades 
Which  plain  and  wood  enfold  ; 

For  laurel  leaves  and  golden-rod. 
And  wild  rose  withered  stem, 

Were  nodding  on  uncultured  ground, 
The  summer's  sweetest  gem. 

No  banner  but  the  tall  green  pine, 
No  music  but  the  leaves 


THE  BURIAL    OF  A   SOLDIER.  21 


Rustling  upon  the  dying  hills, — 
The  winter's  worthless  sheaves. 

No  martial  note,  but  wail  of  wood, 

Attended  on  the  scene ; 
No  banner  wave  nor  plume  to  grace 

The  moments  so  supreme. 

And  soon  the  good  old  soldier 

Was  buried  in  the  ground. 
And  how  many  tried  to  sketch 

His  life  with  honor  crowned, 

And  to  begin  to  measure  up. 

Or  fathom  out  his  worth. 
Was  all  beyond  their  outstretched  hand, 

As  stars  above  the  earth. 

But  yet  his  glory  was  as  bright 

And  brilliant  as  to-day  ; 
Ages  will  rise  and  ages  fall, 

And  yet  they  cannot  say 

What  worth  the  old  gray  soldier 

Did  ransom  from  the  field 
For  them  and  us  and  all  to  have, 

And  never  give  nor  yield. 

His  valor  made  a  continent 

More  stout  than  half  the  world. 

The  banner  which  he  bore  in  war 
By  traitor  is  not  furled. 


22  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

The  victories  of  those  old  days  gone 
Were  fought  by  heroes  true, 

Men  like  the  rock  that  girds  the  hill, 
Men  firm  as  oak  trees  grew. 

Old  Uncle  Joe  was  at  the  base, 
The  bed-rock  was  his  plan 

On  which  a  nation's  lasting  pride 
And  freedom  long  should  stand. 

Yes,  Uncle  Joe  helped  build  all  this. 

With  ready  hands  of  war, 
He  brought  the  eagle  from  the  wood, 

From  heaven  he  took  the  star, 

And  hung  it  on  his  conquering  flag, 
A  day  beam,  and  the  night 

The  spirit  of  old  Uncle  Joe 

Was  warrior's  crowned  with  might. 


MY  BIRTHPLACE  SCENERY. 

AROUND  this  quiet  home  of  mine 
Is  one  huge  beauty  seen  ; 
In  all  the  workmanship  divine 
This  is  the  one  supreme, — 
It  is  the  ocean,  and  its  shore 
Whose  awful   thunders  round  the   world  doth  roar. 


MV  BIRTHPLACE  SCENERY.  23 

Oft  have  I  looked  upon  the  deep, 

So  mighty  and  so  grand, 
With  pity;  for  it  could  not  sleep 

Nor  rest  from  its  command ; 
For  every  breeze  that  passed  it  o  'er 
Caused  some  green  wave  to  roll  a  little  more. 

The  northward  hills  so  sterile  rise, 

In  deep  repose  so  grand, 
The  western  wood  seem  touch  the  skies. 

In  voiceless  silence  stand, 
Hail  !  happy  fields,  thy  breath  is  pure. 
And  ever  firm  while  day  and  night  endure. 

The  vales,  the  hills,  the  forests,  too. 

The  rich  green  meadows  all. 
Are  ever  dear  as  oft  I  view 

Their  pleasures  never  small ; 
In  boyhood  days  from  now  till  then 
I  've  seen  them  yield  their  harvest  o  'er  again. 

So  round  my  home  has  Nature's  hand 

Thrown  out  her  choicest  scenes  ; 
Her  lakes  and  prairies,  too,  are  grand. 

Her  mountains  are  supreme; 
But  give  me  my  own  billowy  sea 
Whose  voice  will  roll  to  all  eternity. 


24  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


SEAWEEDING  AT  ROCKY  POINT. 


1    W 


WAS  midnight  and  the  boist'rous  seas 
ere  rolling:  to  the  shore. 


And  winter's  might  had  tinged  the  breeze 
As  scarce  had  done  before. 

The  bar  soon  was  with  breakers  white, 

And  all  the  beach  a-foam, 
All  hands  were  wearied  for  the  night 

And  many  sighed  for  home. 

By  chance  I  saw  ride  o'er  the  wave 

A  large  white  gull  at  ease, 
Which  noticed  not  the  ocean  rave, 

Nor  winter's  icy  breeze. 

The  tide  that  roared  a  tempest  nigh, 

The  winds  cold  as  could  be, 
The  little  gull  seemed  to  defy — 

The  raging  of  the  sea. 

As  if  an  anchor  held  him  there — 

He  rides  the  seas  with  ease ; 
What  but  the  bird  such  dangers  dare 

Upon  those  dreadful  seas  ? 

We  know  it  was  a  customed  spot 

For  gulls  to  find  retreat, 
But  that  cold  winter's  night  a  lot 

Most  hard  for  life  to  keep. 


SEAWEEDING   AT  ROCKY  POINT.         25 


But  in  his  cradle  all  the  nio:ht 

He  rocked  the  hours  away, 
Regardless  of  the  billows  might 

And  dashing  of  the  spray. 

But  oft  I  watched  the  little  bird 
With  thoughts  of  deep  concern, 

Why  he  should  go  without  a  word 
And  risk  his  place  so  stern  ? 

Was  he  the  watchman  for  the  reef? 

Was  that  his  post  to  sleep  ? 
Was  ocean  wrath  to  him  no  grief. 

Whose  vigil  must  he  keep? 

When  Nature  formed  the  shores  so  vast, 

Did  she  his  life  ordain 
To  spend  it  in  the  surf  and  blast. 

And  perils  of  the  main  ? 

The  mountains  are  the  eagles'  home, 

The  wood  the  owls  retreat, 
Was  ocean  for  the  gull  to  roam 

And  sport  upon  the  deep  ? 

Was  he  her  lightship  for  the  coast, 
When  storms  the  sea  enrage. 

To  guide  some  wandering  mortal  host 
Safely  in  every  age  ? 

The  moon  began  to  silver  o'er 
The  post  where  he  had  sway, 


26  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

But  billows  kept  continual  roar, 
Yet  rode  the  gull  as  gay. 

We  left  him  with  conclusion  full 
That  such  was  his  delight, 

Old  ocean's  breakers  for  the  gull, 
Both  daytime  and  the  night. 

The  freezing  foam  his  couch  of  sleep, 
The  billow's  wrath  his  glee, 

Brave  as  the  thunder  of  the  deep,. 
And  as  the  wave,  as  free. 

But  little  bird  you  rested  well, 
It  must  have  been  delight 

To  ride  those  foam-clad  ocean  swells 
Through  that  cold  winter's  night. 

But  none  can  counsel  you,  dear  bird, 
Though  all  can  know  you  're  brave, 

And  who  but  you  without  a  word 
Would  slept  upon  the  wave  ? 


A   REVOLUTIONARY    STORY. 

WHEN  royal  thunder  broke  on  Newport  coast, 
One  hundred  years  ago,  the  mighty  host 
Of  naval  warships  ploughed  the  main.     And  fray 
Began.     But  storm  was  mightier,  and  the  day 
Was  lost.     But  England  felt  it  more — because 
Her  grip  was  stronger ;  and  her  prestige,  laws — 


A   REVOLUTIONARY  STORY. 


Was  proud  as  Caesar,  when   his  tenth  legion  came 
Home  victorious  from  every  battle  plain. 
Our  fathers  saw,  and  close  beside  the  helm 
They  lay,  lest  awful  war  in  turmoil  whelm 
Their  country's  cause,  and  sad  dishonor  be 
Their  fate  ;   in  struggling,  hoping  to  be  free. 
When  boom  of  cannon  from  that  powerful  fleet 
Began  to  shake  the  shores  and  shut  the  deep 
From  mortal  visage.  Old  South  Kingstown  lay 
Abreast  the  fight,  off  Narragansett  bay. 
But  valiant  sires  who  were  not  in  the  camp, 
Armed  for  defence  along  the  seaward  banks. 
To  stay  all  ravage,  since  their  aim  was  sure; 
For  deep  down  in  each  heart  their  motive  pure, 
Right,  as  defence  to  save  endangered  life. 
Theirs  thrice  as  pure,  for  country,  home,  and  wife 
Were  in  the  scales.     And  when  their  own  dear  fate 
Was  sealed,  then  all  the  rest.     Think  not  how  great, 
But  if  'twas  lost  in  those  eventful  days, 
A  Spartan  band  would  only  live  in  praise. 
The  nation's  arms  then  lay  at  Green's  command, 
Where  summer  waves  washed  on  the  Portsmouth's 

sands. 
And  Washington   knew  that  the  cloud   must  burst. 
As  England  was  for  our  good  blood  athirst. 
So  urged  the  father  of  his  struggling  land, 
With  Lafayette  and  Schuyler  to  command 
The  coming  strife,  augmenting  every  day. 
To  bear  the  plume  or  take  the  plume  away. 
My  grandsire  saw  the  hero  of  the  times 
Ride  by.     The  sun's  last  shadows  shone 


28  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


On  hilt  and  buckle.     But  that  towering  form 

Upon  his  charger  caught  the  village  throng 

And  long  they  looked.     Till  winding  paths  and  night 

Closed  up  the  scene  of  life,  the  grandest  sight 

They  ever  saw.     A  man  whom  God  had  raised 

To  guide  the  state,  for  millions  yet  to  praise. 

For  then  his  glory  and  his  worth  had  filled 

The  world  with  awe,  and  reverence  deeply  thrilled 

All  men.     For  to  be  wise  in  every  place 

Was  but  an  household  word,  his  name  a  grace. 

He  knew  the  right;    unfaltering  with  the  trust 

He  obeyed  conscience  as  a  general  must. 

Too  feeble  is  our  pen  to  tell  his  deed. 

A  world  cannot.     Therefore  let  us  plead 

Our  inefficient  powers  ;  for  none  can  dare 

To  measure  up  his  heart,  and  none  compare 

His  work.     For  none  his  rivals  ever  find 

So  good,  so  magnanimous  to  mankind. 

My  father  said  he  was  a  little  boy, 
Was  with  his  grandsire  at  the  smith's  employ. 
When  news  had  reached  that  Washington  was  dead  ; 
My  father  said  his  grandsire  dropped  his  head 
And  wept.     The  winter's  robe  of  white  was  laid 
Upon  the  hillside  and  the  plain,  but  staid 
Was  every  feature  of  his  household  dear. 
No  smile  was  there,  but  on  each  cheek  a  tear. 
All  men  must  think  of  those  illustrious  days, 
And  set  apart  in  life  one  hour  to  praise 
Great  God,  for  giving  us  a  man  whose  power 
Saved  us  this  land  in  that  eventful  hour. 


F 


RICHARD   HENRY  LEE.  29 


RICHARD    HENRY    LEE. 

OREVER  live  that  blessed  name 
Of  Richard  Henry  Lee, 
Who  first  in  congress  moved  to  make 
This  a  new  nation  free. 

These  thirteen  colonies  were  then 

At  war  with  motherland, 
But  Lee  purposed  that  they  should  be 

A  nation  strong  and  grand. 

This  patriot  theme  soon  took  a  form, 

Till  every  heart  grew  brave. 
For  what  was  use  of  battle-fields. 

What  use  of  soldier's  grave, 

Unless  they  fought  for  some  great  cause. 

More  than  to  drive  a  foe  ? 
But  Richard  Henry  Lee  proposed 

A  nation,  too,  should  grow. 

His  theme  was  sweet  to  every  lip. 

True  hearts  of  high  decree 
Were  then  preparing  soon  to  speak 

And  vote  the  country  free. 

Aroused  was  every  heart  with  hope. 
Brave  were  the  battle  power ; 

For  they  desired  to  fight  more  hard 
For  Independence  hour. 


30  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

It  was  their  theme.     The  soldier  stood; 

They  watched  the  hall  of  state. 
They  knew  as  well  as  Richard  Lee 

That  with  them  was  the  fate. 

The  earnest  days  of  calm  debate, 
The  force  of  word  and  gun, 

To  do  their  share  on  battle-fields 
What  congress  had  begun. 

A  month  rolled  on.     July  the  fourth. 

That  was  the  final  day 
For  these  immortal  patriot  men 

Their  bosoms  to  obey. 

Each  hand  rose  up,  the  bell  rang  long, 
Our  nation's  birth  was  given. 

No  greater  mandate  could  be  done, 
No  grander  deed  for  heaven. 

But  Richard  Henry  Lee  is  first 

When  Fame  her  wreath  shall  shower. 

Though  simply  first  and  that  is  all 
For  this  eternal  hour. 

Long  live  the  great  Virginian  ! 

His  na77ie  must  ever  be 
The  statesman  that  revealed  the  thought 

To  make  our  country  free. 


FRANKLIN  AT  MATUNUCK.  31 


FRANKLIN    AT    MATUNUCK. 

THE  chilly  winds  had  stripped  the  tree, 
Primeval  on  the  rocky  hills, 
And  forest  life  had  lost  its  glee. 

While  sleet  the  skies  of  winter  fills ; 

Around  the  hearth  of  that  old  inn 
The  local  blackguards  all  had  met, 

To  pass  the  day  with  joke  and  grin, 
And  on  their  dogs  good  fighting  bet. 

When  presently  the  door  ajar, 

And  through  it  came  a  rugged  form, 

A  stranger,  all  supposed,  from  far. 
And  wet  his  coat,  with  beating  storm. 

Without  regard  to  friend  or  foe, 

They  keep  their  cowhides  dry  and  warm ; 
And  how  he  won  his  seat  you  know 

Is  famous  as  the  world  is  long. 

But  yet  the  story  I  will  tell 

Of  how  he  won  that  day  his  seat. 

"  My  man  do  you  some  oysters  sell  ? 
If  so  my  horse  wants  some  to  eat." 

So  out  the  blackguards  went  with  speed 
To  see  the  horse  eat  oyster's  shells ; 

But  no  way  cared  the  restive  steed 
To  look  at  them  or  even  smell. 


32  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

So  quick  the  landlord  and  the  crowd 

Came  back  and  said,  "Your  horse  won't  eat. 

"  Well,  then  I  will,"  says  ^^ranklin,  loud  ; 
For  by  the  fire  he  had  his  seat. 

Oh,  could  they  thought  that  kingly  form 
Was  Franklin,  ever  loved  and  great. 

With  wisdom  to  disarm  the  storm, 
And  guide  a  struggling  nation's  fate ! 

Oh,  could  they  thought  he  then  did  bear 
Some  mission  yet  his  land  to  bless  ! 

We  think  a  seat  with  honest  care 
Would  been  provided  for  his  rest. 

Yes,  could  they  thought  the  truest  heart 
New  England  ever  gave  beat  there, 

A  score  would  at  his  presence  start, 
A  score  would  offered  him  a  chair. 


COMMODORE   PERRY'S    OLD    HOME. 

SOUTH   KINGSTOWN  love  to  feel  and  know 
That  Perry's  name  is  theirs  ; 
They  love  to  go  and  look  awhile 
From  all  the  many  cares. 

Upon  the  hills  of  memory  dear, 
The  old  gray  homestead,  too. 


COMMODORE  PERRY'S   OLD   HOME.       33 

Where  Perry  from  a  little  boy 
To  lad's  estate  did  grow. 

We  stand  and  round  the  prospect  gaze 

On  scenes  historic  now; 
The  wreath  of  fame  is  on  his  hills, 

As  on  his  sterling  brow. 

The  spring  which  bubbles  by  the  rock^ 

The  stream  so  clear  and  sweet, 
A  thousand  times  the  commodore 

In  youthful  days  did  meet. 

While  on  the  playgrounds  of  his  youth 

We  thought  of  Erie's  wave, 
Where  he  those  bolts  of  battle  hurled, 

Till  he  the  victory  saved. 

When  his  warship,  the  Laivreiice  proud, 

Was  shattered  in  the  storm. 
His  youthful  valor  knew  no  bounds, 

But  for  the  strife  was  born. 

He  lowered  away  'mid  battle's  smoke 

Through  roar  of  cannons  loud. 
And  climbed  upon  Niagara's  deck 

Undaunted,  brave  and  proud. 

And  with  a  hand  almost  supreme 

He  guides  the  battle's  fate. 
Till  England's  old  majestic  flag 

Perceived  the  foe  is  great. 


34  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

There  in  the  red  embrace  of  death 

The  hero  swept  away 
The  fortunes  of  King  George's  fleet, 

On  that  September  day. 

The  valor  of  the  commodore 

Upon  Lake  Erie's  coast 
Has  ever  been  a  story  brave, 

For  everyone  a  boast. 

Such  deed  of  war,  such  triumph  won, 

Will  ever  be  our  joy, 
His  fame,  like  these  Matunuck  hills, 

No  vandal  can  destroy. 


COLORS  OF  THE  AMERICAN    FLAG. 


F 


ROM  whence  did  these  bright  colors  come.'' 


Where  is  their  birthland  given  ? 
Are  they  on  morning's  gateway  hung 
Upon  the  orient  heaven  .^ 

The  red  stripe  is  the  coming  hue 

Of  that  immortal  day, 
When  o'er  the  world  the  brave  and  true 

By  God's  decree  shall  sway. 

The  blue  is  for  the  glorious  day 
That  shocked  the  world  afar, 


COLORS    OF   THE  AMERICAN  FLAG.      35 

When  these  old  patriot  arms  in  fray 
Brought  glory  from  the  war. 

The  white  is  that  serener  rift, 

The  joy,  the  purer  li^ht, 
Which  lit  the  pathway  as  a  gift. 

To  lead  them  in  the  right. 

These  glorious  hues  our  banner  grace. 

Are  on  the  morning  skies, 
The  noontide  softness  has  its  place, 

The  evening  beauty  lies. 

Star  after  star  will  deck  these  folds. 

As  states  come  into  birth, 
To  shine  around  this  band  of  old. 

Whose  thirteen  shocked  the  earth. 

Then  wave  away,  flag  of  the  skies. 

Graced  with  divinest  hues. 
Where'er  dost  float,  oppression  dies. 

And  Freedom  reigns  more  true. 

Flag  of  our  land,  bright  with  the  stars 

That  shine  in  silent  night, 
Deep  with  the  hues  where  broke  the  bars 

From  whence  our  joys  and  might. 

Flag  of  the  evening  and  the  morn. 

No  sweeter  rays  are  given 
Than  those  upon  our  ensign  worn, 

The  colors  of  the  heaven. 


36  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

THE  WASHINGTON  ELM   IN    BOSTON, 
CUT  DOWN  IN   1875. 

BENEATH  the  broad,  majestic  boughs 
Of  this  most  ancient  elm, 
Did  Washington,  with  garland  brow, 
Assume  the  battle  helm. 

The  beauty  of  his  young,  sweet  day 

Took  on  his  star  of  power, 
While  Briton  was  upon  the  bay, 

Their  smoke  within  the  bower. 

But  what  a  wondrous  change  there  's  been 

Since  that  proud  day  of  old. 
When  freedom  was  with  valiant  men, 

Which  made  them  true  and  bold. 

To  look  back  through  the  misty  age. 
Since  that  old  tree  has  stood. 

No  hand  but  time  can  write  the  page 
Of  its  great  neighborhood. 

The  savage  dynasties  of  old. 

Ten  thousand  stormy  gales, 
Alas,  the  cradle  did  behold 

Young  Freedom's  birth  to  hail. 

Its  topmost  bough  had  seen  the  fleet 
When  Pilgrim  fathers  came, 


THE  WASHINGTON  ELM  IN  BOSTON.     37 

A  watch-tower,  both  for  shore  and  deep, 
Tree  of  remotest  fame. 

The  savage  whoop,  the  horn's  sad  shrill, 

The  tomahawk  agleam, 
Long  centuries,  over  shore  and  hill. 

Have  been  its  common  scene. 

It  heard  the  cries,  that  awful  night. 

When  British  soldiers  red 
Did  massacre  till  morning  light. 

And  half  the  city  dead. 

It  heard  the  roar  of  Bunker's  gun 

Vibrate  through  leaf  and  limb, 
The  signal  note  of  war  had  come, 

To  fight  with  George  the  king. 

It  heard  the  groan  when  Warren  fell, 

On  that  old  battle  hill ;  ' 
It  saw  a  city  rise  to  tell 

And  do  his  dying  will. 

The  memories  of  this  dear  old  tree, 

Its  wonders  to  be  told. 
Time  chronicles  its  age  ;  but  we 

Cannot  those  truths  unfold. 

The  memories  of  this  tree  are  great, 

'T  is  dear  to  every  heart. 
Made  more  so  by  the  nation's  fate 

First  taking  there  its  start. 


38  POEMS   OF  AEIV  ENGLAiXD. 

And  then  it  had  a  century's  strength 
To  flourish  and  be  proud, 

The  new  world  but  a  span  in  length, 
At  sunrise  but  a  cloud. 

Compared  unto  its  mighty  years 

Giant,  antique,  and  gray, 
Thy  beauty  and  thy  strength  and  tears 

Have  all  been  swept  away. 


BENEDICT    ARNOLD. 

THIS  grand  old  name  in  former  days 
So  bright  in  war's  renown, 
But  somehow  did  misfortune  say 
That  he  should  have  no  crown. 

Somehow  did  cruel,  dreadful  wrong 

Get  master  of  his  sphere, 
And  cause  the  old  scarred  patriot  strong 

To  harm  his  name  so  dear. 

That  name  so  bright  on  battle  roll 

In  Independence  time, 
Should  been  upon  his  country's  scroll 

And  freedom's  spotless  shrine. 

But  fate  with  those  whom  gold  deludes 

From  purposes  of  right. 
Each  one  an  Arnold,  sore  and  nude 

Of  honor,  trust,  and  might. 


BENEDICT  ARNOLD.  39 

And  as  his  days  were  passing  on 

In  his  old  English  home, 
He  'd  oft  recall  that  deed  of  wrong 

Which  cannot  be  undone. 

He  said  :     "  Beneath  your  mighty  folds 

I  've  struck  full  many  a  blow, 
While  cannons'  thunder  round  me  rolled 

And  battle  rage  did  flow. 

"  Your  gallant  flag  hath  waved  o'er  me 
On  Champlain's  autumn  shore, 
Ticonderoga,  too,  was  free, 
When  my  old  battery  roared. 

"  That  old  blue  coat  which  hangs  up  there 
Was  pierced  on  Quebec's  plain  ; 
I  had  New  England's  arms  in  care, 
I  led  them  o'er  the  slain. 

"There  on  the  heights  of  Abraham 
I  carried  off  a  scar ; 
My  carnage  there  for  freedom  ran 
In  that  most  glorious  war. 

"  But  as  I  sit  and  muse  o'er  deeds 
So  valiant  in  the  past. 
Deep  sorrows  make  my  bosom  bleed, 
I  live  amid  the  blast. 

"  May  God  my  broken  spirit  know, 
May  some  enfathomed  sigh 
Give  mercy,  for  I'm  not  a  foe, 
Though  as  a  traitor  die." 


40  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


NEW  ENGLAND  VOICES. 

W  7  HEN  ugly  cannon  shook  the  coast 
V  V     One  hundred  years  ago, 
New  England  like  a  steel-clad  host 
Met  and  defied  the  foe. 

The  bugle  note  at  Lexington, 

The  Concord's  battle  din 
Made  every  man  a  Washington 

To  rise  against  the  king. 

That  zeal  which  fired  the  yoeman  heart 

Is  moulded  in  the  life 
Of  every  son,  which  sire  imparts 

That  blazed  in  olden  strife. 

I  cannot  scan  New  England  hills 
Wrapt  with  a  pensive  mood, 

But  what  those  time-famed  echoes  fill 
My  thankful  breast  as  food. 

I  cannot  look  on  ocean's  breast 

But  what  I  see  the  fleet 
Which  Louis  sent,  our  grandest  guest 

That  ever  crossed  the  deep. 

So  good  was  this  old  royal  lord 

That  Nature  almost  speaks. 
While  millions  praise  with  one  accord 

The  value  of  his  fleet. 


AMERICA. 


Yes,  the  mystic  choir  that  sing 

Way  down  within  the  soul, 
Sometime  their  mingled  accents  ring 

Beyond  our  own  control. 

And  clouds  with  wavelets'  distant  chime, 
And  voiceless  gems  that  smile 

A  language  that  is  near  divine, 
But  sure  to  reconcile. 

Speak,  ocean,  from  thy  mouth  so  strong, 
Speak,  hillsides,  and  speak,  flowers, 

In  one  accord  of  praises  long 
Be  ever  heard  with  ours. 


AMERICA. 

HOW  proud  should  we  feel  of  our  country 
When  we  her  broad  fields  do  survey ; 
It  yet  must  be  lord  of  creation, 
Both  land  and  the  ocean  to  sway. 

There  's  one  little  seed  should  be  planted 
Within  the  great  heart  of  our  soul, 

'T  is  the  love  and  respect  for  his  country 
So  brilliant  with  fathers  of  old. 

Go  out  on  the  fields  where  the  battle 
Was  fought  for  the  land  we  hold  dear, 


42  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

We  hear  the  old  names  of  our  fathers 
And  think  of  their  deeds  with  a  tear. 

They  chide  us ;  be  faithful  and  ready 
To  save  the  old  ship  as  were  they, 

For  always  a  spirit  is  coming 
With  musket  and  sabre  to  slay. 

Then  let  not  the  voice  of  our  conscience 
Be  dimmed  by  the  voice  of  the  foe ; 

But  live  for  the  good  of  the  nation, 

The  goodness  our  conscience  must  know, 


T 


OUR  REVOLUTIONARY  DEAD. 

HE  many  thousands  who  have  fought 
Upon  our  battle-fields  of  old, 


Whose  action  is  with  memories  fraught. 
Whose  memories  of  such  actions  wrought 
A  century  past  has  never  told. 

These  sterling  men  of  nation's  worth 
Have  died,  and  to  the  dust  have  gone  ; 

Their  battles  gave  their  country  birth 

And  revolutionized  the  earth 

For  brighter,  clearer  thoughts  to  dawn. 

These  gallant  soldiers,  sons  of  Fate, 
Immortalized  the  world  around, 


OUR   REVOLUTIONARY  DEAD.  43 


First  fruitage  of  the  thirteen  states 
Conceived  the  thought  almost  too  great 
That  they  a  nation's  base  would  found. 

But  where  to-day  are  known  their  graves? 

Have  thoughtless  generations  lost 
The  resting  spots  of  Freedom's  braves 
Whose  lives  her  heritage  did  save 

To  them  at  long  and  fearful  cost? 

Are  they  in  those  old  mossy  mounds 
That  lie  on  hillside  and  the  dell, 

Unmarked,  unknown,  unsought,  uncrowned  ? 

O  could  we  know  !  How  sweet  the  ground 
To  cherish,  to  inscribe,  and  tell. 

Are  they  from  Quebec's  wintry  plain, 
Abreast  New  England's  rugged  fields. 

To  where  perpetual  summer  reigns  ; 

For  there  the  noble  heroes  slain 

Were  thick  to  fall  and  none  to  yield. 

No  mountain  in  the  old  thirteen. 

No  river,  stream,  nor  plain,  nor  wood, 
But  what  their  muskets'  flash  have  seen 
Or  heard  their  bugles'  distant  scream, 
Or  have  some  story  of  the  good. 

They  hung  no  sabre  up  to  rust 
Until  their  victory  was  complete. 

To  conquer,  was  the  cry,  and  must 

Their  flag  unfurl  or  trail  in  dust 
Till  every  foe  is  neath  their  feet. 


44  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

Where  shall  we  place  them  ?  on  what  plane 
Shall  we  exalt  their  matchless  deed  ? 

What  monument  must  bear  their  name  ? 

What  note  must  sound  their  lasting  fame 
To  span  their  glory,  where  's  the  reed  ? 

But  if  their  graves  have  been  forgot, 

Their  names  and  deeds  are  left  to  praise, 

And  to  forget  them  we  cannot ; 

Among  our  great,  the  proudest  spot. 
Our  loftiest  thanks  to  them  we  raise. 


AN  EVENING    SCENE. 

A  WHIP-POOR-WILL  with  flute  of  gold 
Winged  o'er  the  starlit  plain. 
And  lighted  on  a  moss-bound  rock 
To  sing  his  evening  strain. 

The  crescent  moon  was  in  the  west, 

Her  hue  was  on  the  sea, 
The  fields  beneath  her  shadows  rest 

In  deep  sublimity. 

But  where  was  man  ?  the  question  came — 

Distinct  my  senses  heard; 
The  moon  was  laughing  on  the  plain 

And  joy  was  with  the  bird. 


A    BLUEBIRD   S/JVGLVG.  AS 


But  where  was  man  ?  had  slumber's  crook 

Led  him  to  dreamland  far, 
While  here  were  dreams,  of  real  look 

Of  bird,  of  moon  and  star  ? 

Who  saw  the  bird  besides  myself  ? 

The  question  may  arise; 
There  are  birds  enough  for  you  and  me. 

The  moon  is  in  the  skies. 

But  he  who  looks  for  downy  bed. 
When  Night  asserts  her  reign, 

Cannot  enjoy  the  little  bird. 
Nor  hear  his  pleasing  strain. 


A  BLUEBIRD  SINGING,  FEBRUARY 

17,   1894. 

T/ie  night  previous  temperature  ivas  at  zero. 

THE  morn  was  calm  though  cold  the  night, 
And  all  the  fields  were  deep  in  white; 
The  wintry  chain  vvas  strong, 
The  brook  was  bound  in  icy  arms. 
And  every  spot  had  lost  its  charms 
And  Nature  had  no  song. 

When  o'er  the  wastes  of  winter's  cold 
A  Utile  bluebird's  music  rolled, 
Which  gave  the  morning  cheer. 


46  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

High  on  a  stake  with  mantle  blue 
His  lordship  sat  with  heart  so  true  ; 
Called  not  the  morning  drear. 

I  looked  surprised  to  hear  the  song 
Warbling  above  the  winter  storm, 

In  that  huge  hour  of  death, 
When  every  drop  of  vernal  life 
Was  chilled  beneath  the  wintry  strife, 

Of  Arctic's  awful  breath. 

Undaunted  yet  his  spring-like  lay 
Poured  out  in  notes  so  sweet  and  gay, 

As  if  his  heart  were  glad. 
Until  he  made  the  fields  of  white 
Cheer  with  his  thought  that  all  is  right, 

And  why  should  earth  be  sad  ? 

It  was  the  tender  note  of  praise 
That 's  due  the  Lord  in  winter  days. 

As  much  as  in  the  spring; 
The  wonders  of  his  mighty  will 
In  ocean,  storm,  and  voiceless  hill 

Must  make  the  bluebird  sino^. 


OCEAN'S    SHORE. 

THOU  mighty  ocean  on  whose  shore 
My  life  and  labor  have  been  spent, 
From  boyhood's  earliest  scenes  till  now, 
The  same  blue  bosom  to  the  firmament, 
The  same  deep  voices  roar. 


LIBERTY  BELL.  47 


Thou  deep,  with  passions  of  such  power, 
Subject  to  what  men  cannot  stay, 
The  storms  augment,  and  then  to  wrath 
Thy  boundless  strength  in  all  and  every  fray, 
Adds  conquests  every  hour. 

Upon  thy  sandy  wave-beat  verge, 
Upon  thy  rock-bound,  rugged  coast 
Have  ages  come  and  gone.     And  yet 
No  metre  of  thy  voice  nor  might  been  lost, 
Nor  poet  wrote  thy  dirge. 

These  long,  green  banks  are  walls  to  stand 

The  all-united  strength  of  storm 

Of  wind  and  wave  cannot  remove; 

Tor  God  so  said  and  here  his  fingers  formed 

My  boyhood  scene  so  grand. 

We  say,  great  heaven,  these  banks  designed 
To  be  the  roaring  ocean  strand, 
The  mountains  burst,  the  clouds  display, 
And  all  is  great,  but  none  with  me  so  grand 
As  these  loud  shores  of  mine. 


LIBERTY    BELL    EN    ROUTE    FOR    THE 
ATLANTA    EXPOSITION,    1895. 

THOU  grand  old  bell  of  destiny, 
Of  record  always  great, 
Sweet  relic  of  our  liberties 

When  they  were  born  in  state. 


48  POEMS   OF  NEW   ENGLAND. 


This  grand  old  bell  of  freedom, 
More  dear  than  <]jems  of  gold, 

Spoke  when  we  broke  our  thraldom 
With  England's  George  so  bold. 

Its  chimes  on  Independence  hour 
Went  out  upon  the  breeze, 

When  fathers  had  defied  the  power 
Of  rulers  o'er  the  seas. 

And  since  that  day  of  history 

Has  Independence  bell 
Been  sacred  as  the  victory 

Of  which  it  rang  to  tell. 

Proud,  grand  old  bell  of  liberty. 
Announced  the  nation's  birth, 

The  cradle  for  humanity 
For  all  the  men  of  earth. 

It  rang  to  tell  the  story 

Of  patriotism's  hour. 
We  feel  its  truth  and  glory, 

And  see  its  worth  and  power. 

And  as  it  strides  the  nation, 
Ten  thousands  come  to  cheer 

It,  for  their  veneration. 
And  grace  it  with  a  tear. 

Sweet  gem  of  glorious  history, 
Columbia's  heirloom  given. 


SCOTLAND'S  IMMORTAL   BARDS.  49 

By  fathers  grand  in  destiny 
Each  one  should  be  in  heaven. 

And  in  the  march  of  centuries 

Sweet  bell  ring  out  thy  chimes, 
To  fill  mankind  with  memories 
Akin  to  what 's  divine. 


SCOTLAND'S    IMMORTAL    BARDS. 

THE  muses  of  the  Scottish  bards 
Have  filled  the  world  with  worth, 
And  for  their  homes  we  hold  regard 

As  songland  of  the  earth; 
It  finds  within  our  busy  souls 
The  sterling  worth,  if  there. 
And  patriotic  thoughts  will  roll 
Of  home  and  hero's  care. 

On  life's  bleak  wastes  they  stood  alone 

And  played  their  lyres  with  ease, 
Until  no  spot  to  them  unknown. 

No  nation  but  they  please ; 
There  's  not  a  dell,  nor  mountain-top, 

Nor  river,  lake,  nor  stream, 
No  city,  field,  no  castle,  cot. 

But  what  is  made  serene. 


The  flow  of  song  has  thrilled  their  land, 
The  muse  with  feet  of  gold 


50  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

Has  made  that  his  immortal  strand 

From  centuries  of  old  ; 
He's  sung  from  off  the  mountain  brow, 

The  world  has  heard  the  voice, 
The  glorious  note  from  then  till  now 

Has  been  the  patriot's  choice. 

This  song-rocked  realm  of  Scotland,  hail  ! 

Thou  mountain  land  of  fame  ! 
Ever  yet  bright  in  glory's  mail 

And  sweet  in  memory's  name. 
Thou  more  enduring  than  thy  hills, 

For  deeds  and  names  of  them, 
Whose  all  sublime  and  heaven-born  skill 

Made  the  writer's  diadem. 


COLUMBIA    IN    THE    COILS    OF    A    LEVL 
ATHAN. 

WAY  back  in  years  of  sixty-one  . 
When  boyhood  days  were  sweet, 
I  well  remember  battle  news, 
And  slaughter  of  the  union  blues 
In  victory  and  defeat. 

The  theme  of  those  immortal  days. 

So  dark  with  battle's  storm. 
The  story  was  on  every  hand, — 
How  can  the  constitution  stand 

With  foes  so  great  and  strong  ! 


COLUMBIA   IX  THE   COILS.  51 

Then  every  union  patriot  soul 

Was  anxious  for  its  fate  ; 
For  't  was  the  words  that  voiced  the  free, 
The  bed-rock  of  our  liberty, 

A  heaven-built  helm  of  state. 

But  deftly  had  Columbia  stood 

Until  the  serpent's  coils 
Were  squeezing  out  her  very  life, 
And  awful  seemed  to  be  the  strife. 

And  deep  her  struggling  toils. 

The  best  from  off  New  England's  hills. 

The  bravest  from  the  West, 
Went  out  upon  the  fields  to  fight. 
To  save  her  in  the  glorious  right ; 

His  brazen  strength  they  cleft. 

It  made  the  world's  big  bosom  glad 

To  strike  the  monster  down  ; 
For  in  the  victory  was  life, 
A  new  birth  given  in  the  strife. 

An  all  enduring  crown. 

The  union  strength  crushed  out  his  life 

And  raised  the  goddess  up; 
And  long  the  nation  shouted  loud 
In  praise  of  her  for  life  more  proud, 

From  sorrow's  dreadful  cup. 


52  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


WASHINGTON    IN    1750. 

A  TALL  proud  boy  of  eighteen  years 
Surveying  near  the  Georgetown^  heights, 
Upon  the  very  ground  that  yet 
The  nation's  Capitol  should  set, 
Named  in  his  honor  with  his  name, 
No  romance  can  compare  the  same 
In  all  the  world. 

Scarce  forty  years  had  passed  away. 
When  that  tall  boy  of  eighteen   years 
Had  fought  the  grandest  victory  given 
Beneath  the  tranquil  skies  of  heaven  ; 
His  victory  was  a  country  new. 
His  flag  was  our  red,  white,  and  blue 
On  hills  unfurled. 

His  victory  was  all  that's  great. 
All  that  was  rich,  that 's  good  and  free, 
The  old  thirteen  were  made  as  one 
By  this  tall  lad,  George  Washington. 
Then  after  all  the  war  had  past, 
Labor  and  trials  yet  as  vast 
For  him  to  plan. 

But  when  the  siege  of  long  debate 
Had  raised  without  decision  given. 
Then  where  the  Capitol  should  stand 
Was  left  to  his  all-mastering  hand. 


THE  PATRfOTS   OF  lyyG.  53 

For  safely  could  the  state  withhold 
And  take  his  judgment,  for  't  was  gold 
With  every  man. 

The  fields  of  war,  nor  men's  applause 
Had  dimmed  with  him  those  scenes  of  old  ; 
Those  high  hills  of  Potomac  yet 
Were  firmly  on  his  vision  set; 
And  should  he  mark  and  bound  once  more 
For  they  were  sweet  as  days  of  yore, 
All  to  admire. 

And  there  this  old  man  gray  with  war, 
Loved  charms  he  saw  when  but  eighteen, 
And  hence  the  Capitol  now^  stands 
Upon  the  very  hills  and  land 
He  loved  so  in  his  manhood's  prime  ; 
The  spot  ideal  and  sublime 
Was  his  desire. 


THE    PATRIOTS    OF    1776. 

GOD  loves  the  souls  of  valiant  men 
Whose  valor  stands  for  brother's  right ; 
They  're  but  the  powers  which  voice  his  will. 
His  instruments  the  place  to  fill, 
His  every  purpose  to  unite. 


54  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

One  great  example  of  this  truth 
Was  in  our  Independence  time, 
When  our  young  nation's  life  began 
To  build  upon  the  present  plan 
Which  is  a  part  to  us  divine. 

Men  in  the  council  seats  were  true, 
Men  on  the  field  as  firm  as  they, 
A  loved  unwritten  patriot  law 
Pervaded  council  and  the  war 
Till  victory  won  the  glorious  day. 

Those  fifty-six  staunch  men  of  old. 
Who  raised  their  hands  to  vote  us  free, 
Deserve  the  highest  note  of  praise 
That  freedom's  happy  millions  raise 
In  bringing  out  our  Lord's  decree. 

Men  on  the  field  in  humbler  rank, 

Who  fought  and  fell  for  that  great  cause, 

Or  bore  a  musket  for  defense, 

Are  just  as  great  in  every  sense 

As  they  who  formulated  laws. 

Around  that  camp  of  sweet  renown 
Which  guarded  our  immortal  birth. 
They  sit  united  as  of  old. 
But  in  a  realm  of  joy  untold, 
Rewarded  for  their  toil  of  earth. 

Around  that  camp  sits  one  we  love 
Whose  name  we  cherish  and  revere  ; 


OUR   SHIP   OF  STATE.  5? 

But  all  a  different  task  performed, 
And  every  soul  the  camp  adorns, 
And  every  heart  is  just  as  dear. 

We  see  the  illustrious  fathers  sit 
In  tattered  robes  of  shining  gold. 
While  sweeter  notes  than  battle  drums 
Which  bade  them  once  to  carnage  come, 
Fill  all  the  realm  with  strains  untold. 

A  great  reward  for  valor  given, 

A  sphere  where  agonies  no  more 

Shall  harm  the  peace  of  them  who  fought, 

And  by  their  deeds  the  world  is  taught 

A  lesson  of  Columbia's  shore. 


OUR    SHIP    OF    STATE. 

HOW  proudly  looms  our  ship  of  state 
In  every  patriot's  eye. 
Its  destiny  to  him  so  great 
That  he  will  for  it  die. 

He  sees  it  loom  upon  the  sea, 

Its  prow  is  made  of  gold, 
Its  keel  was  laid  by  heaven's  decree, 

Its  helm  our  goddess  holds. 

Its  canvas  is  a  sparkling  robe 
With  emeralds  set  so  fair. 


")  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

Its  course  is  westward  round  the  globe 
Beneath  diviner  care. 

There  are  eighty  millions  on  her  bows, 

Shouting  with  one  accord, 
While  glory  wreathes  the  helmsman's  brows 

And  hails  her  captain  lord. 

The  pilots  fear  the  sunken  reefs, 

Yet  reefs  of  danger  past ; 
They  watch,  but  trusting  to  their  chief 

If  they  are  on  them  cast. 

No  leeward  land  now  breaks  the  view. 

No  shoals  to  foam  the  wave. 
But  one  majestic  spanless  blue 

Rolls  round  the  mighty  brave. 

The  stars  whose  lustre  o'er  them  vents 

Are  those  immortal  souls 
Crystalled  amid  the  firmaments. 

Their  union  to  control. 

No  storms  that  shade  the  sky  serene 

Can  dim  one  glorious  star, 
Its  beauty  through  the  tempest  beams 

And  fills  the  world  afar. 

And  as  our  great  immortal  names 

Ascend  from  earth,  they  shine 
To  guide  this  ship  through  Time's  deep  main, 

Till  anchor  cast  for  time. 


OAK   TREE  PLANTED.  57 


OAK  TREE  PLANTED  ON  THE  TWO 
HUNDREDTH  ANNIVERSARY  OF  KING 
PHILIP'S  DEATH  AT  MOUNT  HOPE, 
AUGUST    24,    1876. 

WE  plant  to-day  a  tree, 
The  infant  of  the  wood. 
To  mark  where  Philip's  throne 
In  far  back  days  had  stood. 

Two  hundred  years  have  past 
Since  that  young  savage  lord 

Asserted  for  his  rights, 
And  led  his  arms  abroad. 

Until  New  England's  heart 

Was  thrilled  with  deep  concern. 

For  Philip's  knife  was  red. 
His  heart  was  just  as  stern. 

All  this  broad  realm  was  his, 
The  hills  so  green  with  wood. 

The  vales  so  rich  with  grass  ; 
Himself  a  monarch  stood. 

The  inborn  grace  of  man 

He,  may  be,  never  knew. 
His  nature  fierce  and  wild. 

His  thoughts  of  mercy  few. 

Not  for  his  savage  heart 

Was  this  sweet  memory  given, 


S8  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

Not  for  his  all  intent 

For  which  our  land  had  striven. 

But  as  an  emblem,  we 

The  oak  tree  plant  to  him, 

It  is  the  forest's  pride, 
Of  forests  it  is  king. 

As  emblem  of  his  strength. 
Child  of  the  wild  wood  he, 

Who  loved  to  battle  storms, 
Innured  to  gallantry. 

Then  may  the  sun  and  showers 
Nourish  this  tree  until 

Its  strong  extending  arms 
Shall  shade  the  royal  hill. 

His  birthright  yet  may  see 
His  grand  domain,  and  know 

That  this  is  Philip's  tree, 
The  mightiest  English  foe. 

From  this  historic  mound 

His  royal  father  left. 
To  greet  our  pilgrim  sire 

On  Plymouth's  rock  bereft. 

But  Philip's  heart  was  hard. 
His  father's  love  not  there, 

The  passion  of  his  soul 

Was  rapine,  blood,  despair. 


TASH-TASH-UCK  AND  HIS  COUNTRY.      59 

But  grow  this  youthful  tree, 

Fit  emblem  be  this  oak, 
Until  its  branches  grace, 

7'he  summit  of  Mount  Hope. 


TASH-TASH-UCK    AND    HIS    COUNTRY. 

IN  memory  of  this  ancient  chief 
The  muse  will  dedicate  his  song, 
For  in  his  heart  there  is  belief 

That  this  illustrious  ruler  long 
Held  regal  sway  of  our  domain, 
And  thousands  'neath  his  mighty  reign 
Lived  conquerors  in  his  hour. 

In  his  proud  years  he  trod  the  hills 

And  fished  the  streams,  a  source  of  wealthy 

And  in  the  grove  the  panther  killed 

And  speared  the  treacherous  wolf  in  stealth. 

Peace  filled  his  slumbers  where  he  slept 

And  foes  from  his  loved  realm  were  kept 
By  his  brave  legion's  power. 

Ah,  could  he  known  a  century  more 
Would  sweep  his  royal  blood  away 

And  other  men  invest  his  shore 
And  all  his  glory  in  decay. 

Could  brave  Tash-tash-uck  known  the  fate, 

So  grimly  in  the  future  wait 
For  his  proud  race  and  throne. 


6o  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

But  when  our  sires  his  valleys  prest 
They  saw  a  charm  of  beauty  there, 

For  Nature  many  a  way  had  blest 
With  scenery  that  is  grand  and  rare. 

Soon  o'er  his  fields  new  homes  were  spread 

And  feet  of  other  nations  tread 
On  ashes  of  his  own. 

Could  he  have  seen  the  commerce  borne 
From  the  wild  wastes  of  ocean's  might, 

And  valleys  filled  and  mountains  torn, 
The  iron  steeds  to  move  in  flight, 

Would  all  this  woke  his  savage  breast 

Enough  to  ask  what  powers  they  vest 
To  do  such  wondrous  thing. 

But  where  is  he  that  once  was  strong 
And  mighty  in  that  day  of  old  ? 

Is  there  no  relic  but  a  song, 
No  deed  nor  legend  to  unfold 

One  rift  of  his  long,  ancient  reign  ? 

All  lost  but  his  undying  name — 
So  oft  the  fate  of  kings. 


JOHN    BROWN. 

OLD  good  John  Brown  and  his  four  sons 
Began  the  conquest  for  the  slave, 
And  gloriously  they  did  appear 
Upon  our  Western  new  frontier, 
The  nurseling  empire  state  to  save. 


JOHN  BROIVIV. 


For  slavery's  wicked  van  had  set 

Westward  to  spread  its  withering  blight, 

But  these  most  gallant  sons  said  no, 

And  with  a  tirm,  uplifted  blow, 

They  struck  for  God,  freedom,  and  right. 

The  warm,  rich  life  blood  of  their  sire 

Was  bounding  through  the  sons  the  same. 

Deep  in  each  bosom  was  the  zeal. 

And  for  humanity  that  weal 

Which  lit  the  country's  soul  aflame. 

They  heard  that  still  small  voice  and  knew 
Their  arduous  task  for  him  was  long. 

The  millions  were  against  their  plan, 

A  nation,  too,  was  on  the  van, 

With  slavery's  minions  leading  on. 

They  saw  the  murky  clouds  of  war. 
And  heard  the  roar  of  battle-fields. 

And  knew  they  must  fall  in  the  fray ; 

But  when  the  storm  should  pass  away, 
Their  cause,  like  mountains,  never  yield. 

The  clouds  did  burst,  the  storm  did  sweep. 

The  barbarous  chains  of  slavery  fell, 
But  who  has  sung  their  primal  deeds. 
First  martyrs  in  the  cause  to  bleed, 
What  shaft  their  heroisms  tell  ? 

What  sons  of  broad  Columbian's  realm 
Have  done  more  for  our  name  so  sweet 


62  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

Than  John  Brown  and  his  boys  so  brave, 
Whose  hope  and  life  were  with  the  slave, 
Though  God  their  labor  made  complete? 

Must  centuries  pass  before  the  doubt 

As  to  their  all  eventful  day, 
To  be  rewarded  and  revered 
Between  both  oceans,  and  endeared 

As  first  in  that  immortal  fray  ? 


GEN.  JOHN  C.  FREMONT. 

FREEDOM'S  great  banner-bearer  dead, 
A  Ca:isar  for  her  shackled  race, 
And  first  the  nation's  forces  led. 
As  chief  before  the  glorious  chase. 

His  campaign  march  with  flag  unfurled. 
In  heart  true  as  the  Northern  star, 

With  cause  that  shook  the  Christian  woild. 
The  cause  the  grandest  for  a  war. 

Heroes  may  fall  on  fields  more  red. 
But  never  o'er  the  battle  strife 

Has  man  rejoiced,  or  nobler  bled. 
For  right,  humanity,  and  life. 

For  when  he  raised  that  sword  on  high. 
His  heart  for  servile  man  was  true, 

And  victory  with  a  wreath  stood  nigh, 
To  grace  the  fallen  and  the  few. 


GEN.    JOHN  C.    FREMONT.  63 


That  purpose  which  his  bosom  filled, 

Rushed  out,  like  mountain  torrent,  warm, 

For  slavery  wickedness  had  chilled 

All  thought  of  legal  hands  more  strong. 

But  while  his  cap  waved  on  the  van, 
Secession's  flag  fell  'neath  his  feet, 

And  thraldom's  dastard  giants  scanned 
His  onward  move  with  sorrows  deep. 

Yes,  while  his  sword  flashed  by  his  side. 
Beyond  the  Mississippi's  banks. 

New  England  loved  his  battle  strides. 
And  loved  to  fill  his  veteran  ranks. 

Few  nobler  names  are  gathered  'round 
The  sainted  shrine  of  freedom  great, 

A  thousand  more  may  get  the  crown, 
While  yet  the  truth  is  with  his  fate. 

Few  dearer  names  than  Fremont's  live. 
Twofold  in  greatness  long  to  stand; 

His  youthful  heart  of  valor  gives 

The  mountain  pass  to  Western  strands. 

His  country's  flag  he  first  unfurled 
Upon  Nevada's  snow-capped  hills. 

And  gave  unto  his  land  a  world 

Where  states,  like  empires,  rise  to  fill. 

His  battle  horn  and  sabre's  gleam. 

Crossed  mountains  robed  in  winter's  cold. 


64  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

While  in  his  rear  comes  up  the  stream 
Of  restless  men  in  quest  of  gold. 

And  while  his  eagle  ensign  waved, 
Our  country  loved  to  follow  on, 

For  in  his  tracks  there  was  no  grave. 
But  victory  and  greatness  won. 

Long  will  the  name  of  Fremont  live, 

Long  will  New  England's  patriot  breast 

Rejoice  to  honor  and  to  give 
Due  reverence  to  a  hero's  rest. 


NOT  SHOOT  THE  EAGLE. 

NOT  shoot  the  eagle,  sportsman,  stop! 
He  's  national  and  great ; 
Have  you  his  glory  once  forgot, 
Since  he  was  born  of  state  .'* 

Now  halt,  and  let  your  better  will 

Be  master  for  the  time, 
And  do  not  that  old  eagle  kill 

Whose  memories  are  sublime. 

For  when  our  nation's  day  began, 

One  hundred  years  ago, 
Our  fathers  in  their  mighty  plan 

Decreed  things  thus  and  so. 


NOT  SHOOT   THE  EAGLE.  65 

Among  the  many  mandates  wrought, 

One  was  to  have  a  shield, 
As  emblem  of  the  nation's  thought, 

Some  badge  for  state  and  field. 

What  object  was  more  fitting,  then, 

In  those  wild  stormy  days, 
To  be  an  emblem  for  those  men 

So  worthy  of  our  praise, 

Than  the  majestic  eagle  grand, 

Free  as  the  clouds  on  high, 
Whose  wing  the  starless  realm  commands, 

Like  thought  he  climbs  the  sky. 

This  eagle  bird,  yes,  he  should  be 

Our  coat  of  arms  and  shield  ; 
His  portrait  symbol  of  the  free. 

In  hall  of  state  and  fie-ld. 

The  mountain's  child,  heir  to  the  land 

Which  rises  to  the  cloud. 
He  lives  beyond  the  storm  more  grand 

On  snow-clad  crags  more  proud. 

Do  n't  shoot  the  eagle  !  let  him  soar  ! 

He  's  motto  for  our  liberty, 
Freedom-loved  bird  forevermore. 

Proud  symbol  of  our  victory. 


66  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


OUR    CONSTITUTION. 

HOW  staunch  our  Constitution  stands 
Before  the  world's  admiringr  gaze, 
Its  base  the  continent  commands, 
And  to  the  starry  cloudlands  raise. 

How  careless  is  the  common  mind 
Its  build  and  majesty  to  know, 

The  strength  and  glory  of  mankind 
Are  in  the  work  and  purpose,  too. 

It  makes  the  citizen  feel  great, 

It  equalizes  every  man, 
It  stands  the  proudest  wall  of  state, 

The  grandest  gift  in  mortal  plan. 

When  storms  of  battle  on  it  beat 
And  awful  was  the  day  of  strife, 

It  stood  as  firm,  unharmed,  complete, 
Nor  lost  a  grace  of  early  life. 

But  brilliantly  in  that  red  hour 

It  shone  celestial,  pure,  and  bright, 

And  freedom  set  her  cherished  flower 
Beneath  its  rosy  walls  of  might. 

Beside  its  battlements  now  shine 

The  gem  her  bleeding  hands  had  set, 

A  sweet  memento  all  divine, 

Last  block  of  gold  with  battle  wet. 


WASHINGTON.  67 


Look  to  the  skies !  hail,  walls  of  light ! 

The  stars  shine  o'er  its  summit  high, 
Its  crown  forever  grows  more  bright, 

Its  base  still  on  the  bed-rock  lies. 


Boon  of  the  world  !  Vast  column  stand, 
Proud  bulwark  of  Columbia's  free, 

Strength  of  the  mountains,  and  as  grand 
From  earth  to  heaven,  from  sea  to  sea. 

Boon  of  the  world,  of  limit  grand. 
Forged  in  the  battle-furnace  blast 

And  built  by  faithful  fathers'  hands, 
That  should  a  million  centuries  last. 


WASHINGTON. 

HAS  time  through  all  the  centuries  great 
And  all  the  change  that  empire's  seen, 
Failed  to  produce  in  war  and  state 
A  man  so  brave,  so  wise,  supreme  ? 

Have  nations  fought  enough  and  bled 
To  raise  one  soul  of  God-built  mind. 

Whose  feet  would  not  his  victories  tread, 
But  ever  leave  them  for  mankind  ? 

Have  kings  robbed  glory  of  her  man 

Until  this  mighty  age  of  earth 
Must  God  raise  up  to  show  his  plan 

For  nations  to  grow  strong  with  worth  ? 


68  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


Did  grandeur  store  her  noblest  deeds 
That  proud  Columbians  might  achieve  ? 

All  earth  has  said  that  heaven  decreed, 
And  all  this  glorious  truth  believe. 

Did  wisdom,  in  his  house  of  gold, 
Keep  these  immortal  truths  so  great, 

Until  our  Washington  of  old 

Was  asked  to  bring  them  into  state  ? 

He  went  with  purpose  strong  and  grand 
To  bear  them  in  from  storms  of  strife, 

And  did  triumphantly  command, 
Tho'  cost  his  shore  its  patriot  life. 

He  bravely  through  war's  thunder  bore 
The  germs  that  make  his  country  free, 

The  glory  of  Columbia's  shore 
Was  ransomed  in  his  victory. 

This  all-important  patriot  deed 

To  our  great  Washington  was  given, 

A  duty  by  his  land  decreed, 

A  mandate  surely  born  in  heaven. 

Did  God  reserve  this  Continent 

As  theatre  for  men  to  raise 
A  free  ideal  government. 

Where  freedom,  justice,  truth  be  praised  ? 

He  stood  on  our  foundations  new, 

With  sword  drenched  in  the  battle  gore. 


AMERICA'S   FIRST  BATTLE.  69 


And  asked  high  heaven,  with  bosom  true, 
To  smile  upon  it  evermore. 

He  saw  behind  how  empires  fell, 
And  of  the  past  the  future  told ; 

He  tells  us  in  his  last  "Farewell," 
A  gift  the  nation's  bosom  holds. 

The  world  has  known  his  glorious  worth. 
No  note  can  lift  him  higher  on. 

No  rival  ever  had  of  earth, 

None  built  so  grand  as  Washington. 

And  may  the  country  ever  be 
An  emblem  of  his  soul's  desire, 

True,  patriotic,  grand,  and  free, 
A  land  that  will  the  world  admire. 


AMERICA'S    FIRST    BATTLE    AT    LEXING- 
TON. 

THE  midnight  stretched  the  Bay  State  hills, 
And  every  star  was  shining  bright  ; 
Slumber  a  thousand  homes  did  fill, 
And  who  was  dreaming  of  the  fight  ? 

But  ere  the  night  had  passed  away 

They  heard  the  shout  of  Paul  Revere, 

Whose  mission  was  to  rouse  for  fray 
The  sleeping  thousands  far  and  near. 


70  POEMS   OF  XEIV  ENGL  A, YD. 

For  England's  mighty  men  of  strife 

Were  roaming  fast  through  hill  and  glen, 

Robbing  the  country  of  its  life, 

And  trampling  o'er  the  rights  of  men. 

But  long  before  the  skies  were  red 

A  thousand  farmers,  strong  and  brave, 

Began  a  thousand  paths  to  tread. 

Their  wealth,  their  homes,  their  lives  to  save. 

This  was  America's  first  van, 

America's  first  battle  call, 
America's  first  march,  first  plan, 

First  soldiers  for  her  rights  to  fall. 

They  met  the  foe  at  Lexington, 

At  Concord,  too,  they  fought  and  fell, 

With  every  blow  they  struck  they  won. 
Each  step  they  took  the  world  doth  tell. 

They  hurled  them  o'er  the  Charlestown  heights, 

And  made  it  one  immortal  day. 
For  Liberty  to  tell  and  write 

About  the  heroes  in  that  fray. 


DANIEL  BOONE. 

HOW  pleasant  't  is  to  tell  and  praise 
Our  men  of  past  for  gallant  deeds. 
Men  who  lived  in  ye  olden  days, 
Whose  wit  and  valor  did  succeed. 


DANIEL   BOOXE.  71 


It  is  no  deep,  inherent  power, 

To  tell  the  truth  as  oft  one  speaks, 

No  virtue  to  extol  the  hour 

Of  him  who  honor  justly  reaps. 

So  do  not  forget  these  bright  names, 
Whose  bravery  led  the  Western  van, 

They've  fought  like  those  on  battle  plain, 
They've  achieved  much  to  fill  the  plan. 

What  man  have  we  to  honor  more 

Than  Daniel  Boone?    The  nation  owes 

That  man  a  debt ;    let  all  ignore 

The  selfish  ways,  and  something  show. 


We  do  not  care  to  praise  his  deed 
So  much  as  to  admire  the  life. 

The  soul,  the  nerve,  from  whence  proceeds 
Such  length  of  peril  and  of  strife. 

The  dangers,  hardships,- and  the  years 
This  man  had  passed  in  woods  so  deep, 

Make  him  our  bannered  pioneer, 
The  subject  for  a  world  to  greet. 

While  men  of  brave  Columbia's  realm 
W^ere  waging  Independence  War, 

With  sterling  grasp  they  had  the  helm. 
With  strength  they  hurled  the  foe  afar. 

Meanwhile  was  Boone  on  wild  frontiers. 
With  firebrand  and  with  gun  in  hand, 

And,  like  the  soldiers,  lost  to  fear. 
But  served  his  country  just  as  grand. 


72  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

He  hewed  from  Western  wood  a  state, 
He  gave  his  flag  another  star, 

The  old  Kentuckian  realm  so  great, 

First  born  since  young  Columbia's  war. 

What  man  has  nobler  fought  than  Boone  ! 

How  bright  in  history  lives  his  name  ! 
It  shines  in  Fame's  deep  skies  at  noon, 

A  country's  pride  from  main  to  main. 


No  gift  of  state,  no  price  in  gold. 

Could  lure  him  from  the  primal  wood. 

His  nature,  long  innured  and  bold, 

With  grace  each  hardship  had  withstood. 

When  others  sought  his  home  and  fields, 
He  'd  build  his  stockade  miles  away, 

And  there,  when  nature's  stillness  yields, 
His  soul's  deep  instincts  would  obey. 

Until  De  Soto's  long,  deep  wave 

Was  crossed  for  darker  fields  to  roam, 

A  life  of  fourscore  years,  yet  brave. 
He  found  in  solitude  a  home. 

He  loved  to  rove  the  wild,  remote, 

Un traversed  realms,  where  mortal  feet 

Had  never  trod,  nor  stirred  the  note 
Within  the  silent  wood  so  deep. 

The  wolf's  grim  howl  in  midnight's  hour 
Was  but  a  bugle  call  for  him  : 


DlSCOVERIiXG    THE  HIGHLANDS.  73 


His  rifle,  guardian  of  the  bower, 
His  presence  safer  than  a  king. 

Boone's  bravery  faced  the  savage  knife, 
The  arrow,  tomahawk,  and  spear. 

He  chanced  a  thousand  times  his  life, 
With  wolf,  with  panther,  and  with  bear. 

Such  heroism  makes  his  days 
A  marvel  in  his  nation's  pride, 

This  brave  old  pioneer,  a  praise, 

A  household  name  his  country  wide. 


HUDSON    DISCOVERING    THE    HIGH- 
LANDS. 

WHEN  Hudson  sailed  this  narrow  sea 
To  find  what  wealth  it  did  possess. 
He  found  wild  nature's  majesty 
Unbroken  in  its  happiness. 

Those  cliffs  which  rise  in  grandeur  high. 
No  other  shores  so  tall  and  grand, 

In  clouds  their  snowy  summits  lie, 
In  firmaments  their  voiceless  hands. 

He  looked  with  awe  on  the  serene 
Huge  workmanship  of  nature's  build. 

His  soul  must  been  lost  in  the  scene. 
His  heart  with  giant  greatness  thrilled. 


74  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

The  dark  blue  waves  so  deep  and  strong, 
Flowing  from  the  unseen,  unknown, 

From  whence  they  come,  what  shores  unborn, 
What  realm,  what  sources  might  they  own  ? 

A  thousand  visions  till  his  gaze, 

All  moulded  in  gigantic  form, 
A  thousand  thoughts  to  lift  in  praise 

For  boastful  nature  deeds  so  strong. 

Still  the  deep  wave  with  mountain  shores 
Kept  yielding  sceneries  all  sublime, 

The  royal  eagle  lordly  soared 

And  hailed  the  clouds,  his  native  shrine. 

wSince  those  young  days  what  glorious  fate 
Hath  come  upon  her  shores  and  hills  ! 

The  new  world  "s  built  her  cities  great, 
Her  shores  the  seas  with  commerce  fill. 

Since  that  grand  sail  that  Hudson  made. 
What  splendid  change  in  empire  seen  ! 

A  people  hath  a  nation  laid 

And  brought  their  fleets  upon  his  stream. 

Upon  her  shores  the  continent 

Brings  down  its  treasures  for  the  earth. 

Great  waves,  what  service  have  they  lent 
Unto  the  world  since  their  short  birth? 


IMMORTAL    VIRGINIANS.  75 


IMMORTAL  VIRGINIANS. 

THOSE    old  Virginians   wrought   such    mighty 
deeds, 
That  patriot  bosoms  never  can  forget 

When  our  young  country  for  her  rights  did  bleed, 
They  both  in  war  and  state  for  victory  met. 

It  gives  the  true  heart  pride  to  trace  the  page 
And  see  the  names  so  glorious  in  renown  ; 

We  find  them  first  the  battle  strength  to  wage, 
We  find  them  first  with  statesmen  glory  crowned. 

We  find  her  Henry  blazing  with  that  fire 

In    halls    of    state,  that    thrilled    the    country 
through  ; 

We  find  her  Washington  with  one  desire 
To  stand  for  right  or  die  a  martyr  true. 

Her  Jefferson  with  ermine  robes  of  peace 
Stands  like  a  giant  with  deep  counsel  sweet, 

Flowing  to  man  and  man  to  man  increase 

His  words  and  thoughts  until  a  nation  greets. 

Her  Madison  and  her  Monroe  and  Lee, 
All  wise  and  brave  in  those  historic  days, 

Toiling  that  their  young  country  might  be  free, 
And  may  we  long  her  patriot  children  praise. 

The  nation,  yes,  may  take  them  in  her  arms 
And  ask  all  ages  still  to  judge  their  worth. 


76  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

To  that  sad  era  when  those  great  alarms 

Hung  round  the  cradle  of  the  nation's  birth. 

Yes,  take  but  three,  one  fired  the  land  with  hope, 
Another  gave  the  reasons  why  they  fought, 

The  third  arrayed  and  with  the  battles  cope 

And  victory  for  the  struggling  millions  brought. 

Of  course  w^e  do  not  mean  to  slight  the  name 
Of  him  that  first  upon  the  country  page, 

But  simply  give  to  old  Virginia's  fame 

Her  first  great  actors  of  that  glorious  age. 


THE  MIND  OF  MAN. 

THE  mind  of  man  I  symbolize. 
As  monuments  of  stone. 
With  summits  mid  the  clear  blue  skies. 
Unguarded,  grand,  alone. 

Some  stand  upon  the  solid  rock, 
With  base  so  broad  and  grand, 

That  storms  give  strength  instead  of  shock. 
And  age  withholds  its  hand. 

While  others  stand  on  sandy  base. 

And  fall  before  the  years 
Of  life  have  run  their  usual  race  ; 

With  some  no  mind  appears. 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN.  11 


And  some  stand  on  a  rock  unmoved 

With  fertile  soil  around, 
Bearing  sweet  herbs  of  heaven  approved, 

And  with  new  glories  crowned. 

Some  stand  with  flowers  twining  round 

This  shaft  of  heaven's  design, 
Unfolding  gems,  the  rarest  found, 

Of  workmanship  divine. 

Yes,  bless  the  Lord,  he  gives  the  mind, 

He  plants  the  gems  to  grow, 
He  's  authorship  of  all  mankind, 

He  's  God  above,  below. 

If  one  with  rugged  mind  be  graced. 
And  towers  with  flowers  above. 

Look  not  contemptuous  o'er  thy  race. 
But  know  that  God  is  love. 

And  listen  to  that  still  small  voice 

That  speaks  unto  the  soul, 
For  'twas  that  power  that  made  the  choice 

And  made  the  mind  unfold. 


ABRAHAM    LINCOLN. 

GOD  in  his  all-wise  vision  saw. 
Plain  as  we  see  the  sun's  broad  glow, 
That  America  must  have  war, 
For  she  had  nurtured  up  a  foe  ; 


78  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

And  hence  a  man  to  guide  the  hour 

Must  be  the  next  sublime  decree, 
Whose  every  instinct  feels  the  power 

And  knows  the  voices  of  the  free, 
The  build,  the  glory  of  his  state,. 
The  steps  to  take,  the  pathway,  and  its  fate. 

And  when  the  dark,  deep  clouds  had  spread 

And  half  the  universe  began 
To  shake  beneath  the  battle  tread. 

The  nation  leaned  upon  her  man. 
Who  had  come  forth  as  from  the  night ; 

Yet  strong  and  mighty  for  the  day, 
With  word  and  hands  to  do  the  right 

Let  others  purpose  as  they  may ; 
Tor  to  his  soul  a  voice  sublime 
Had  spoke;  he  knew  the  course  of  God's  design. 

Prodigious  spirit  of  the  age 

Came  forth  to  give  his  hallowed  light, 
Illume  the  world-great  freedom's  sage, 

The  praise  of  nations  to  unite. 
Great  father,  of  two  spheres  adored, 

The  earth  and  all  the  realm  divine, 
Whose  power  a  severed  land  restored. 

Whose  grave  is  liberty's  first  shrine, 
All  hail,  till  patriot  fires  shall  cease, 
Our  martyred  loveliness,  our  son  of  peace. 

First  for  his  country's  sake  he  stood, 

Whose  fate  the  zealous  world  looked  on. 


BEAUTIFUL   DAYS.  79 

And  trusted  to  his  sense  of  good  ; 

Whose  virtues  were  of  lordly  form, 
His  reasoning  powers  were  stronger  far 

Than  other  minds  before  his  day  ; 
He  measured  with  a  span  the  war 

And  set  the  bounds  it  should  obey. 
The  Union  blood  should  ransom  more 
Than  all  its  pains,  the  miseries,  and  the  gore. 

These  traits  of  character  so  grand 

Which  shone  from  him  in  days  so  great, 
The  extra  threads  of  gold  to  stand 

The  awful  test  of  war  and  state ; 
Had  Lincoln's  soul  been  void  of  these 

Royal  attributes  which  heaven  gave. 
We  turn  in  terror,  for  the  seas 

Of  deep  rebellion  would  enslave. 
And  he  with  this  republic  great 
Would  both  been  buried  to  an-  awful  fate. 


BEAUTIFUL    DAYS. 

WHEN  spring  unfolds  her  balmy  wing 
And  soars  across  the  hills  of  brown, 
Her  many  million  voices  sing. 

The  many  million  hopes  will  crown. 

How  pleasantly  her  days  pass  by, 
All  nature  seems  to  smile  and  wait, 


POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


While  she  prepares  the  earth  and  sky,  ' 
Her  precious  seeds  to  germinate. 

Her  breath  is  on  the  morning  breeze, 
Her  love  the  noontide  skies  reveal, 

The  ocean  breakers  fall  with  ease, 
And  evening  clouds  her  beauty  steal. 


How  pleasantly  is  life's  sweet  day 

With  health  and  youth  strewn  round  so  dear, 
Will  spring  look  hopeful  when  decay 

Will  mark  the  coming  threescore  year  ? 

But  may  each  life  pass  down  the  stream 
Unburdened  with  transgression's  thought. 

But  with  a  conscience  pure,  serene, 

Of  good  deeds  and  of  good  words  fraught. 

May  spring  look  beautiful  with  age 

When  tottering  steps  some  day  will  come  ; 

May  some  sweet  theme  the  mind  engage, 
May  some  sweet  flowers  the  pathway  bloom. 

Spring,  the  fair  maid  of  all  the  year, 

Will  ever  come  with  rosy  lips 
To  kiss  the  bare,  cold  hills  so  drear 

And  trees  with  purple  buds  to  tip. 

Spring,  the  sweet  daughter  with  her  seed. 
Will  come  and  go  when  I  am  gone, 

But  may  great  God  my  spirit  lead 

Where  peace  and  flowers  shall  ever  dawn. 


A   SUMMER   HOUR. 


A  SUMMER  HOUR. 

GREAT  the  joy  there  is  in  silence 
When  the  mind  is  free, 
For  then  we  here  with  nature  talk, 
And  all  seems  in  glee. 

Especially  when  summer  breezes 

Waft  the  teeming  earth, 
And  all  landscapes  seem  to  flourish 

In  nature's  glad  birth. 

Every  fly  is  but  a  minstrel 

As  it  soars  along ; 
Every  bird  and  every  cricket 

Keeps  continual  song. 

In  the  chimney  now  the  swallows 

Chirrup  and  seem  gay. 
While  I  muse  in  shades  so  peaceful 

All  the  summer  day. 

Over  all  the  mighty  locust 
Sounds  his  deafening  strain 

From  the  tree  top  in  the  forest 
To  the  far-off  plain. 

Yes,  there  is  a  tranquil  beauty 

On  the  silent  hearth. 
Ancients  knew  it  when  they  told  it. 

And  they  knew  its  worth. 


POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


For  among  the  varied  music, 

We  can  gently  pause 
On  the  glorious  works  of  nature 

And  her  sacred  laws. 

While  I  think  of  him  that  formed  them, 

How  could  I  destroy 
One  sweet  life  so  full  of  pleasure 

For  what  some  call  joy  ? 

For  each  varied  song  so  gently 

Seems  to  fill  my  soul, 
While  this  little  band  of  music 

Heaven  alone  controls. 

Who  should  dare  now  crush  a  minstrel 

On  the  sod  or  limb  ; 
I  should  notice,  and  besides 

Be  observed  by  him. 


MASSASOIT. 

PROUD  monarch  of  a  thousand  hills, 
Thy  name  is  yet  revered  and  grand, 
For  those  remindful  deeds  that  filled 
That  seaworn  suffering  pilgrim  band. 

For  those  humane  and  Christian  thoughts 
That  thrilled  thy  breast  for  other  weal, 


WASHhYGTON  AT  PRAYER.  83 

A  million  hearts  with  homage  frought 
Still  for  thy  memory  ever  feel. 

For  in  thy  heart  an  instinct  dwelt 
That  made  thy  savage  life  a  flower; 

Thy  deeds  an  infant  nation  felt, 

So  timely  wrought  in  sorrow's  hour. 

Ah,  yes,  thy  memory  is  the  rose 

That's  in  the  garland  which  surrounds 

The  brow  of  thousands  that  repose 
In  honor  on  New  England  grounds. 


WASHINGTON    AT    PRAYER. 


H 


OW  glorious  must  have  been  the  sight 
Of  Washington-  at  prayer, 


Who  had  the  nation's  cause  to  fight 
At  heart,  the  nation's  care. 


'T  was  when  he  lay  at  Valley  Forge, 
Packed  by  the  winter  storms. 

While  the  strong  army  of  King  George 
Was  in  the  city  warm. 

Disease  and  death  were  stalking  round 

The  patriot  ranks  in  grief, 
Our  ship  of  state  almost  aground 

The  shoals,  the  rocks,  the  reef. 


84  POEMS   OF  NEIV  ENGLAND. 

Great  Washington  he  knew  that  God 

Was  in  his  cause  so  great, 
He  languished  for  his  smiling  rod 

In  some  way  demonstrate. 

He  sought  the  frozen  wood  to  pray 

Great  God  to  help  and  haste, 
For  young  America's  short  day 

Was  sorrowing  into  waste. 

They  heard  him  pray,  his  lifted  voice 

Made  vocal  hill  and  wood  ; 
They  knew  their  cause  would  be  God's  choice. 

For  he  is  with  the  good. 

Columbia,  sweet  with  girlish  grace. 

Was  in  the  storm-beat  bower, 
And  Liberty  with  tearful  pace 

Was  near  him  at  the  hour. 

They  looked,  they  saw  his  bended  knee, 

His  brow  was  cold  and  bare. 
They  only  whisper  :   '•  Yes,  it 's  he, 

Our  Washington  at  prayer." 

Low  by  his  side  his  sabre  hung. 

His  hat  laid  on  the  snow. 
As  his  great  heart  with  trouble  wrung 

Poured  out  his  country's  woe. 

They  wiped  their  soul's  warm  tear  away, 
Their  sob  was  low  and  deep. 


LINCOLN  AT  GETTYSBURG.  85 

Jehovah  heard  "  the  Father  "  pray, 
He  saw  the  moistened  cheek. 

He  answered  prayer,  we  heard:  Amen. 

The  wood,  the  camp,  the  world 
Rejoiced  to  see  the  cause  again 

And  victory's  iiag  unfurl. 


LINCOLN    AT    GETTYSBURG. 

AN  old  gray  soldier  said  he  saw 
Lincoln  at  Gettysburg. 
Three  days  that  awful  strife  had  raged, 
Three  days  the  Union  arms  had  waged 
The  nation  deep  >vas  stirred. 

The  Union  arms  were  making  then 

Full  twice  five  thousand  graves, 
For  Lee  had  gone  and  left  his  slain, 
The  Nation's  dead  was  on  the  plain 
But  Union  banners  wave. 

Lincoln  had  come,  the  president ! 

The  field  was  thrilled  anew; 
The  bugle  called  the  men  in  line ; 
A  hundred  thousand  bayonets  shine. 

Held  all  in  hands  so  true. 


86  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

The  soldier  said  :   His  hat  was  soft 

And  illy  graced  his  head; 
A  dark  frock  coat;  and  very  tall, 
A  head  and  better  o'er  them  all, 

With  broad,  strong  shoulders  spread. 

They  saw  him  walk;  they  heard  him  speak 
Those  words  of  wisdom  rare. 

The  conquest  was  his  fatal  stroke  ; 

The  blow  was  given,  and  it  broke 
The  arm  the  nation  dare. 

The  Southern  structure  felt  the  day — 

It  settled  with  the  strain ; 
The  base,  the  piers,  the  pillars  shook ; 
The  architectural  bore  a  look 

That  it  must  fall  in  twain. 

The  soldier  said  :   His  wearied  breast 

Was  with  emotion  deep  ; 
For  they  beheld  him  as  their  king — 
Their  leader  and  their  chief — who  'd  bring 

Them  through  the  war  complete. 

Lincoln  at  Gettysburg  was  gold  ; 

'T  was  glory  and  't  was  great. 
The  world  knew  that  he  fought  the  strife, 
And  knew  he  was  the  nation's  life. 

Holding  its  shivering  fate. 

It  was  on  Independence  day. 
The  nation  had  met  there. 


INDIAN  ROYAL  BURYING  GROUND.       87 

And  all  the  Union  and  the  earth 
Knew  't  was  the  second  of  its  birth, 
With  purer  life  to  share. 

Lincoln  at  Gettysburg  !     How  wise 

To  meet  his  soldiers  brave  ! 
Fearless  he  met  them  on  the  plain, 
Among  the  wounded  and  the  slain. 

And  by  the  new-made  grave. 


INDIAN    ROYAL    BURYING   GROUND, 
CHARLESTOWN,    R.    I. 

I    STAND  among  the  royal  graves 
Of  Narragansett's  kings  of  yore. 
Whose  age  was  mighty  and  as  brave 
As  those  that  rule  to-d^y  their  shore. 

But  time,  so  certain  and  so  strong, 

Hath  laid  their  crowns  and  sceptres  low, 

And  all  their  victories  but  a  song. 
Their  life  a  wild  flower  long  ago. 

These  lines  of  graves  so  crude  and  old 

Bring  to  the  memory  what  must  have  been 

This  hill  with  thousands  young  and  bold  ; 
These  scenes  all  massed  with  savage  men. 

Rude  honors  of  their  Indian  life. 
As  din  of  missiles,  scream  of  horns. 


88  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


Then  rang  these  vales  like  battle  strife 
In  those  remote  vast  years  now  gone. 

The  cortege  resting  at  the  hill, 

The  bearers  of  their  king's  remains. 

The  spears,  the  plumes,  the  forest  fills. 
The  ranks,  the  crush,  the  burial  strain. 

All  those  wild  anthems  of  the  past. 
The  primal  wood  that  filled  the  vale 

Has  gone  forever,  and  the  vast 
Eternity  will  only  tell  the  tale. 

All  swept  away  except  the  scene 

Where  rocks  and  hillside  voiceless  stand, 

And  the  blue  ocean  all  supreme, 

Whose  white-lipped  waves  yet  beat  the  sand. 

But  nations  mightier  than  their  own 

Have  sunk  beneath  the  freight  of  years. 

And  brighter  crowns  and  grander  thrones 
And  sceptres,  too,  whom  earth  did  fear. 

Faith  hath  not  only  grasped  the  names 
Of  these  wild  lords  of  glory  past — 

Not  only  lost  their  ancient  reign, 

But  with  the  world  hath  dealt  as  vast. 

The  life  of  flowers,  of  grass,  and  tree 

Owes  its  existence  to  the  dust 
"Of  some  sweet  life"  long  ceased  to  be, 

Some  age  that  felt  as  yet  we  must. 


A    GULL    ON  BLACK  ROCK.  89 

But  grateful  to  their  memory  still 

And  what  time's  hand  doth  yet  reveal, 

We  '11  cherish  and  we  '11  guard  the  hill, 
We  '11  scribe,  preserve,  and  ever  feel. 


A    GULL   ON  BLACK    ROCK,   ROCKY 
POINT,    SOUTH    KINGSTOWN. 

THE  wind  across  the  grassy  banks 
Was  blowing  brisk  and  keen. 
While  many  a  gull,  with  gleeful  pranks, 
Seem  joyous  to  be  seen. 

They'd  rise,  they  'd  dive,  they'd  skim  the  wave. 

So  boistrous  and  so  grand  ; 
They  'd  perch  upon  the  rock,  then  brave 

Along  the  beaten  sands. 

But  one  would  on  the  black  rock  set. 
As  waves  rolled  'round  him  deep  ; 

The  spray  would  make  his  bosom  wet 
And  wash  his  purple  feet. 

The  billows,  as  they  swept  along 

And  'round  the  boulder  dark. 
Did  thunder  in  a  voice  so  strong: 

That  made  one  give  a  start. 

But  firmly  stood  the  gull,  nor  winced 
Nor  left  the  foam-clad  rock. 


90  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

For  his  whole  spirit  seemed  convinced 
It  was  a  happy  spot, — 

A  place  where  his  wild  nature  sought, 
Innured  from  birth  till  now, 

By  a  true  instinct  ever  taught 
Not  to  the  seas  to  bow. 


SPRINGTLME    MEMORIES. 

THE  sweetly  singing  jay  in  blue 
Has  brought  the  spring  once  more, 
While  hallowed  memories  come  to  view 

As  wave-beats  on  the  shore. 
Could  w^e  withstay  the  memories  bright, 
Could  w^e  eclipse  them  in  a  night, 
Where  not  a  future  rift  could  light, 
How  dark  would  lifetime  be. 

My  mother's  bird.      I  should  forget 

When  it  came  full  of  glee  ; 
It  always  perched  to  sing,  and  sit 

Upon  the  mulberry  tree. 
And  there  unto  the  evening  still 
Its  sweet  notes  would  the  branches  fill. 
At  morn  the  little  bird  would  thrill 

The  dooryard  with  his  glee. 


EACH  MIND   A    WORLD.  9» 


Could  I  forget  my  boyhood  days, 

My  mother's  joy  and  mine, 
What  could  I  have  to  love  and  praise 

Or  think  of  good  old  times? 
For  when  the  evening  hour  grew  late 
My  mother  stood  beside  the  gate. 
Perhaps  an  hour  she  'd  watch  and  wait. 

And  ask  what  made  me  stay. 

Her  robin  then  had  gone  to  sleep, 
But  whip-poor-wills  would  sing. 

Or  else  the  little  frogs  would  peep 
Beside  the  brook  and  spring. 

How  sweet  those  memories ;  yes,  how  sweet 

I  feel  them,  and  I  hear  the  feet 

Of  those  delightful  days,  so  fleet, 
Tread  softly,  but  away. 


EACH    MIND    A    WORLD. 

IT  seems  to  me  this  mind  of  ours 
Might  well  unto  a  world  compare, 
For  in  and  round  it  live  such  powers. 
Such  awful  destinies,  such  care. 

It 's  also  true  each  mind  is  wrought 
Of  something  different,  and  arranged 

On  different  plans,  for  every  thought 

Seems  firm  as  stars  that  shine  unchanged. 


POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


We  think  we  are  right,  and  try  to  tell 
Those  we  think  wrong  the  way  to  right, 

But  cannot  change  ;  the  more  we  dwell, 
The  further  off  they  get  from  sight. 

We  know  it 's  so.      Each  mind  seems  based 
On  something  which  God  knows  is  true. 

All  trees  stand  firm  within  their  place. 
Each  tree  's  a  tree,  tho'  different  grew. 

It's  so  with  us;  we  are  right  because 
There  is  a  cause  each  must  defend. 

And  justice  will  regard  the  laws 
Of  nature  till  the  very  end. 

A  tree  cannot  say  to  a  tree. 

You  are  wrong,  because  you  are  big  or  small ; 
You  should  grow  crooked,  fair  like  me, 

Or  be  as  that  one,  straight  and  tall. 

We  should  not  say  unto  a  man. 

You  are  wrong  because  you  are  not  like  me. 
Why  should  we  try  to  shift  a  plan 

Of  which  a  God  has  so  decreed. 

The  mind  seems,  more  and  more  to  me, 

Like  some  born  sphere  for  thoughts,  like  stars 

Of  different  hues, — so  fair  to  see. 
So  brilliant,  and  to  us  so  far ! 

Fixed  are  these  firmaments  ;  they  shine 
To  brighten  all  the  w^orlds  around. 


HAWAII.  93 


Each  star  a  jewel  built  for  time, 
Each  star  eternity  to  crown. 

Though  some  may  be  more  drear  and  dark, 
Yet  God  has  purpose  for  their  life  ; 

He  's  all  supreme,  his  grander  heart 
Will  triumph  and  make  clear  the  strife. 

He  made  all  men,  he  made  the  world, 
He  made  us  like  Himself,  as  should. 

Then  on  our  thoughts  pure  sky  unfurled, 
The  likeness  of  his  world  so  good. 

Then  all  should  cease  to  try  to  sail 

Each  other's  ship  through  life's  deep  sea; 

For  God  is  steering,  and  the  gale 
Is  also  part  of  his  decree. 

We  may  plant  flowers  for  others'  good. 
We  may  bear  burdens  for  their  weal. 

But  what  good  things  we  do,  we  should 

Know  they're  from  God,  not  from  Him  steal. 


HAWAII. 

LITTLE  tropic  brave  Hawaii, 
Struggling  in  the  Western  main, 
Raising  from  her  pagan  starlight 
To  the  morn  of  Christian  reign. 


94  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


Wanting  to  become  a  sister 
To  Columbia,  Empire  state, 

Whose  maternal  hands  have  aided 
In  her  recent  strides  so  great. 

Shaking  off  the  royal  fetters. 
Forged  by  wild  barbaric  hands, 

To  adorn  with  rose  and  laurel 
Emblems  of  a  mightier  land. 

Orphaned  mid  the  deep  seas'  thunder, 
Shall  we  make  her  one  more  star 

On  the  flag  of  this  great  Union, 
Mighty  both  in  peace  and  war  ? 

Raise  once  more  that  starry  ensign 
On  those  fearless,  sea-girt  hills, 

For  the  soul  of  earth  and  heaven 
Knows  it's  God's  eternal  will. 

Proud  is  every  loving  patriot. 

Proud  is  Liberty  to  know 
That  her  influence  bounds  no  ocean 

But  must  with  her  people  go. 

Deep  down  in  the  heart  of  freemen, 

In  the  patriotic  soul. 
Voices  raise  that  can  't  be  trodden. 

Powerful  as  the  ocean  roll. 

In  the  sunny,  broad  Pacific 

She  must  rise  with  laureled  head 


IVASHINGTO^r  AIVD  THE  CONSTITUTION.  95 

And  her  crown  of  pearl  and  sea  shells 
Must  be  freedom's  wreath  instead. 

Isles  of  little  sweet  Hawaii, 
Emerald  set  in  Western  wave, 

Gemland  like  our  own  New  England, 
Land  of  valiant  men  to  save. 

Injured  beauty  of  the  West  seas. 

In  the  great  day  yet  to  come 
We  will  smooth  those  tear-wet  ringlets. 

We  will  greet  our  sister  home. 


WASHINGTON  AND  THE  CONSTITUTION. 

AFTER  the  battle  guns  had  ceased 
Of  that  illustrious  patriot  age, 
And  men  came  to  love  the  peace 

For  which  they  long  had  been  engaged. 

The  happy  millions  then  demand 

A  constitution  for  the  free, 
And  who  must  fill  the  conclave  good, 

And  who  must  voice  their  liberty. 

The  weight  of  battle  had  been  borne. 
The  musket  and  the  sword  laid  down, 

The  nation's  flag,  bloody  and  torn, 
A  priceless  nation  as  a  crown. 


96  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

Their  country's  eye  was  yet  upon 
The  chief  who  led  the  stormy  scene, 

The  mighty,  grand  George  Washington, 
Most  noble  of  the  age  supreme. 

Again  he  must  assume  the  lead 
In  this  momentous  hour  so  great, 

For  who  should  know  the  country's  need. 
Or  better  build  the  walls  of  state. 

He  'd  heard  the  land  proclaim  the  cause, 
He  'd  seen  them  bleed  on  fields  and  die. 

And  hence  to  formulate  their  laws 

'Twas  well  they  should  with  him  rely. 

Each  germ  of  power  that's  planted  there, 
Each  fabric  in  the  mighty  build, 

He  weighed  it  all  with  thought  and  care. 
His  own  deep  heart  the  import  filled. 

The  solons  of  the  ancient  Greece 
Did  fail  to  reach  the  height  desired, 

The  wise  of  Rome  knew  not  the  peace. 
Nor  with  the  grandest  thoughts  inspired, 

Down  the  huge  mountain  stream  of  time 
Have  nations  plunged  to  rise  no  more, 

Only  to  leave  wreckage  and  crime 
And  ghost  of  glory  on  the  shore. 

From  these  huge  ruins  of  the  past, 
This  avalanche  of  shattered  hopes, 


ON  THE  BATTLEMENTS  OE  LIBERTY.     97 


These  wise,  good  men  a  vision  cast 

And  grander  build  high  heaven  invokes. 

Those  great  Columbians,  true  of  soul. 
And  zealous  for  their  truth  to  stand, 

Went  to  the  heart  and  forged  the  whole 
Vast  architectural  scene  so  grand. 

There's  not  a  turret,  spire,  nor  gate, 
Nor  cornice,  capital,  nor  tower. 

But  what  this  fatherhood  of  state 

Designed  for  us  in  those  great  hours. 

And  as  we  gaze  upon  its  walls, 

Massive  and  grand  as  summer  clouds, 

His  name  shines  brightly  o'er  them  all, 
Sublime,  immortal,  stanch,  and  proud. 


WASHINGTON  UPON  THE  BATTLEMENTS 
OF    AMERICAN    LIBERTY. 

UPON  those  grand  stupendous  walls 
With  banners  torn  and  stained, 
Great  Washington  with  sword  in  hand, 
Uplifted  and  with  loud  command. 
Forever  has  proclaimed. 

That  these  herculean  battlements 

Were  built  for  freedom's  sake. 

And  none  must  dare  to  come  behind. 


98  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


Unless  a  friend  to  all  mankind, 
And  zealous  for  the  state. 

These  massive  labors  of  an  age, 
Forged  out,  fought  out,  and  raised, 
Were  not  erected  for  the  wrong, 
Were  not  erected  for  the  strong, 
But  for  soul-freedom's  praise. 

This  sky-built,  huge,  colossal  work, 
The  wonder  of  the  world. 
Is  where  our  ancestors  began 
To  toil,  to  consummate  the  plan, 
And  freedom's  flag  unfurled. 

Who  dares  to  battle  down  the  walls. 
Who  dares  insult  the  gate. 
Would  disenthrone  the  sun  and  moon, 
Rob  heaven  of  all  the  stars  as  soon, 
And  leave  the  worlds  to  fate. 

Who  would  climb  up  the  flag  to  furl 
Or  strike  his  sabre  low, 
Must  have  a  soul  dark  as  the  night. 
Must  have  a  sense  perverse  to  right — 
All  earth's  devouring  foe. 

But  no,  those  God-built  walls  must  stand, 
They  are  crystal  rocks  of  blood. 
They  are  built  with  pain,  with  sighs  and  tears. 
Their  base,  when  laid,  a  thousand  fears 
Were  on  the  shores  and  flood. 


THE  BIRTHPLACE   OF  LINCOLN.  99 

They  are  raised,  and  time's  gigantic  hand 

Still  strengthens  and  makes  strong ; 

When  they  are  taken  down,  the  sons  who  built 

Must  have  upon  their  souls  the  guilt — 

To  them  the  lasting  wrong. 

When  stalwart,  young  America 

Sees  not  that  sword  on  high. 

The  heart,  the  nerve,  the  life  will  cease, 

The  beauty  of  the  world,  and  peace 

Will  breathe  its  last  deep  sigh. 


THE   BIRTHPLACE   OF    LINCOLN. 

IN  Hardin  county,  in  the  dark,  deep  wood, 
Neath  summer's  sunshine  and  the  winter's  storm, 
A  lone  log  cabin  there  remotigly  stood, 

The  place  where  Lincoln,  best  of  men,  was  born. 

It  was  an  eve  when  winter's  wind  of  might 

Roared  in  the  tall  wood,  naked,  cold,  and  close. 

This  babe  came  forth,  whose  little   hands  should 
write 
The  grandest  edict  that  the  world  disclosed. 

A  mother's  love  was  all  the  infant  knew. 
Its  humble  birth  no  envy  could  arise. 

But  God,  who  has  for  us  a  purpose  true, 

Smiled  down  that  night  with  ever  watchful  eyes. 


POEMS   OF  NEW   ENGLAND. 


The  snarl  of  wolf,  the  howHng  of  the  wood, 
The  icy  wind  that  ravished  every  spot, 

Were  all  the  notes  of  that  lone  neighborhood 
So  grimly  near  his  old  log  cabin  cot. 

This  child  of  honor  from  his  rough  log  home 
Rose  up  from  poverty  to  hills  of  power, 

Here  first  our  Lincoln  to  the  world  had  come. 
Here  in  the  primal  wood  his  earliest  hour. 

Here  first  his  prattle  and  the  spring  birds'  lay 
Did  greet  the  leaf  so  lovely  to  the  scene ; 

Here  first  his  little  hands  began  to  play 

And  crawl  beyond  the  door-sill  to  the  green. 

Here  first  he  stood  at  mother's  knee  so  strong, 
And  here  he  slept  upon  his  bed  of  leaves. 

And  here  he  learned  to  trudge  the  paths  so  long, 
To  help  his  father  shock  the  heavy  sheaves. 

Here  until  nine  sweet  summers  of  his  life 
Did  Lincoln  know  no  other  home  than  this. 

A  spot  long  dear  in  all  the  varied  strife 
Is  home  of  childhood,  ever  home  of  bliss. 

Here  Lincoln's  born,  the  greatest  of  the  great. 
Here  in  the  lone,  deep  forest  glade  he  grew, 

And  here  embraced  the  idea  of  the  state 

Of  which  he  grasped  with  every  purpose  true, 

Here  played  the  boy,  who  marshaled  armies  vast, 
Here  first  the  Moses  to  the  slave  began, 


TEMPEST  OE  J^INUARY\'2'^:  \i''^^^\\,  \\k\ 


Here  in  the  wild  backwoods  did  God  recast 
To  this  tall  youth  the  nation's  future  plan. 

Here  like  the  David,  who,  we  read  of  old, 

Watched  on  the  plains  of  Palestine  the  sheep. 

And  here  we  have  an  Abraham  as  bold. 
And  trusting  ever  in  the  God  who  keeps. 

The  old  log  cabin,  rough-built  as  could  be, 
Without  a  grace  or  comfort  to  behold. 

Now  stands  a  sacred  heirloom  to  the  free. 

In  every  mind  more  dear  than  lumps  of  gold. 

Here  will  the  eagle,  bannered  bird  of  power. 
Sing  to  the  skies  an  anthem  of  the  good, 

Here  will  the  glory  of  that  birth  and  hour 
Cling  round  his  old  log  cabin  in  the  wood. 


TEMPEST  OF  JANUARY  25,   1893. 

THE  awful  thunder  roaring  o'er  the  main, 
The  midnight's  darkness  on  the  sky, 
And  drifting  snow  is  on  the  frozen  plain, 
And  shores  and  ponds  all  ice-bound  lie. 

The  lightning  flash  broke  from  the  freezing  clouds, 

And  all  the  field  was  fire  and  snow, 
The  thundering  ocean  and  the  storm  more  loud 

Made  scenes  most  terrible  below. 


i'd2.  ,  •  .poBjf)fS::0^:  i^EW  England. 


I  lay  and  heard  the  muttering  tempest  roar, 
And  knew  how  weak  were  mortal  hands 

To  push  the  cloud  or  winter  from  the  shore, 
Or  calm  the  billows  on  the  strand. 

All,  all,  I  knew  was  but  the  work  of  him 
Who  doeth  all  things  with  his  power. 

And  from  the  awful  midnight  yet  would  brin^ 
To  all  the  glorious  daybeam's  hour. 

And  when  the  silvery  lustre  of  the  day 
Appeared  above  the  orient  hills, 

The  murky  stormclouds  all  were  swept  away 
And  winter's  storm  was  monarch  still. 


SOUTH    KINGSTOWN    BEFORE  THE  DIVI- 
SION. 

YE  prince  of  towns,  shake  off  your  dust. 
And  rise  before  the  mustering  foe. 
For  legions  seem  to  think  they  must 

Some  little  selfish  action  show. 
May  I  compare  the  town  a  shield 

That  hangs  in  little  Rhody's  halls. 
Whose  beauty  their  true  pride  reveals. 

And  spreads  sweet  luster  o'er  the  walls, 
And  shines  a  Venus  in  the  cluster  there. 
For  none  more  great  with  natural  charms  to  share. 

Upon  this  shield  we  look  with  joy. 
So  fair  with  promise  and  with  worth, 


SOUTH  KINGSTOWN  BEFORE  DIVISION.  103 


Embossed  by  nature's  high  employ, 

Our  wealth,  our  township,  home  and  birth. 

For  waving  hills  and  valleys  deep. 
Our  father's  noblest  hope  and  pride, 

And  level  fields  where  harvest  reap, 
Lie  here  and  there  so  rich  and  wide. 

And  groves  and  lakes  and  ever-flowing  streams 

And  cities  young  add  their  glory  to  the  scene. 

While  ocean's  mighty  wave  surrounds 

In  part  the  shield  of  proud  designs. 
The  wave  which  girds  the  globe  around 

iVnd  feels  the  gale  of  every  clime ; 
Besides  from  all  these  God-built  charms 

We  have  on  fame's  sweet  hills  of  pride 
Two  heroes  who  have  led  our  arms 

At  Erie  and  South  Mountain  side. 
And  jurist,  statesmen,  sages'  names  enrolled 
Whom  ages  yet  may  write  with  names  in  gold. 

And  of  the  past  we  have  delight 

To  love  these  spirits  of  renown. 
Whose  luster  throws  its  genial  light 

O'er  every  hearthstone  of  the  town, 
Will  not  permit  the  severing  blow 

To  part  the  strength  and  purpose  true  ; 
For  by  it  what  of  wisdom  show 

More  honor  to  be  one  than  two, 
Part  not  with  what  our  worthy  fathers  leave. 
Strike  down  the  sword  our  honored  shield  would 
cleave. 


I04  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


SHERIDAN'S   ARRIVAL  AT  CEDAR  CREEK. 

THE  fight  at  Cedar  Creek  is  known 
To  all  the  Christian  land  ; 
How  Union's  arms  in   camp  asleep 

Were  waked  by  hostile  hands 
And  hurried  off  like  frightened  sheep 
Before  the  foe,  whose  voice  of  war  was  deep. 

Their  chief  that  night  at  Winchester, 

Phil  Sheridan  the  brave. 
Had  slept,  full  many  a  mile  away. 

But  heard  at  morn  the  wave 
Of  cannon's  sounds,  like  battle's  fray ; 
He  knew  his  foe ;  for  in  them  danger  lay. 

He  mounts  his  gallant  war  horse  proud, 

And  urges  to  the  camp, 
His  fear,  his  soul,  his  pride  were  there 

Among  those  gallant  ranks  ; 
His  steed  soon  bore  his  rider  where 
His  vision  caught  his  routed  troops  and  fare. 

He  waves  his  cap  and  shouts  aloud, 

"  Face  round  the  other  way, 
We  are  going  back  to  camp  again, 

We  '11  whip  them  in  the  fray." 
With  one  more  added  to  the  plain 
New  war  began  and  glory  wreaths  his  name. 

The  news  flew  on  o'er  stricken  lines, 
"  Sheridan  is  in  front;  " 


GRANT  PASSING    J  VEST  POINT 


105 


Full  twenty  thousand  soldiers  spoke, 

"  Be  conquered  now  we  won't, 
For  our  old  chief  with  hope  unbroke 
Will  stand  the  storm  like  some  unsheltered  oak.' 

So  right  about  each  soldier  turned 

With  bosom  bare  and  bold, 
And  met  their  great  advancing  foe 

As  Greeks  once  met  of  old, 
And  there  amid  the  tide  of  woe 
They  fought  and  fell  and  won  at  every  blow. 

The  victors  that  were  victors  but 

One  short,  sad  hour  ago, 
Were  turned  to  flight— all  that  could  flee-- 

From  Union  hearts  aglow, 
And  Sheridan  smiled  but  to  see 
His  arms  rejoice  in  their  great  victory. 


general  grant  en  route  for  mount 
McGregor  passing  west  point. 

WHEN  Grant  looked  from  his  palace  car, 
As  gently  round  the  curve  it  swung. 
He  saw  the  city  from  afar 

Where  fifty  years  before  he  'd  come. 

For  there  in  boyhood  glee  he  played, 
And  there  his  mimic  battles  fought ; 


io6  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

And  since  those  days  his  nation  swayed, 
With  lifted  sword  and  power  of  thought. 

The  joy  and  glory  of  his  soul, 

The  pride  and  height  of  mortal  hope, 

He  'd  lived  to  see  like  mountains  roll 
Away,  beyond  the  vast  remote. 

But  in  that  thought  to  know  his  day 
Was  nobly  spent  for  man's  great  cause, 

Must  have  been  a  soft,  reflective  ray, 
To  cheer  his  life  as  evening  draws. 


THE   AMERICAN    SOLDIER. 

HOW  noble  stands  the  soldier  boy, 
Also  his  deed  and  name, 
They  all  combine  our  worth  wdth  joy, 
Our  country,  home,  and  fame. 

How  closely  are  their  w^orks  allied 

To  what  is  good  and  great. 
Other  brave  men  have  fought' and  died 

For  a  less  noble  state. 

But  here  how  sweet  the  cause  that  led. 
How  firm  their  victories  stand. 

The  freedom  which  they  bought  when  bled 
Is  still  our  priceless  land. 


THE  AMERICAN  SOLDIER.  107 

The  savage  wilds  of  eastern  worlds, 

The  royal  ways  of  old, 
Secession's  banner  when  unfurled, 

The  human  bought  and  sold. 

Have  all  made  wars  of  dire  moment, 

All  caused  a  bloody  strife, 
And  in  those  scenes  our  government 

Was  nourished  into  life. 

All  that  the  soldier's  valor  gave 

To-day  we  cherish  more. 
Go  dedicate  his  honored  grave 

With  tiny  flags  he  bore. 

We  cannot  look  on  ocean  vast. 

On  mountain,  dell,  or  plain. 
But  what  the  awful  battle  blast 

Has  left  its  ruddy  stain. 

And  for  this  mighty  land  of  ours. 

So  glorious,  great,  and  strong. 
All  purchased  in  strife's  red  hours 

With  life's  young  carnage  warm. 

The  soldier's  life-blood  bought  it  all ; 

How  can  we  pay  the  debt  ? 
How  can  we  ransom  for  his  fall? 

How  can  we  him  forget  ? 

When  shall  we  tread  his  flag  so  dear, 
The  cause  for  which  he  died  ? 


io8  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


Will  centuries  roll  the  fated  year? 
And  who  the  storm  descried  ? 

Shall  it  be  when  the  last  warm  drop, 

His  very  life-blood  gore, 
Shall  through  the  veins  of  children  stop, 

And  memory  live  no  more  ? 

Shall  it  be  when  the  chiseled  rock 
Shall  crumble  down  and  fall? 

Shall  it  be  when  the  earth's  last  shock 
Will  bury  all  in  all  ? 

But  guard  him  well,  his  memory  note. 
As  centuries  pass  the  while, 

For  universal  hands  that  wrote 
He's  freedom's  battle  child. 


SPRING'S    FIRST    SUNSET,     1894. 

THE  setting  sun  had  curtained  all  the  west 
With  robes  of  crimson  beauteous  to  behold  ; 
The  first  fair  day  of  spring  was  taking  rest 
Behind  the  bannered  clouds  of  blue  and  gold. 

The  scene  was  rich,  'twas  great,  sublime,  and  sweet 
To  know  it  was  the  long  expected  sign 

Of  vernal  days,  our  frost-bound  hills  to  greet. 
And  take  the  scepter  from  our  rugged  clime. 


LIBERTY'S   ADDRESS.  109 

How  sweet  is  life  and  health  to  live  and  see 
The  fields  rejoice  beneath  the  season's  dawn, 

To  once  more  meet  the  bloom  and  leafy  tree 
And  hear  the  birds  rejoice  at  early  morn. 

How  far  the  knowledge  seems  from  man   to  know, 
The  mighty  import  of  a  coming  year. 

That  all  the  food  for  millions  is  to  grow — 
A  thought  so  foreign,  yet  a  truth  so  near. 

The  leaves  will  fall,  the  season  have  its  death, 
But  spring  brings  back  the  seed-time  and  the  sun. 

But  when   man  goes,  his  life  seems  but  his  breath, 
And  all  the  joys  of  earthly  nature  run. 

But  still  they  tell  us  in  a  brighter  clime 
He  wears  eternal  spring,  and  not  a  leaf 

Decays  nor  flower  grows  less,  but  all  divine, 
And  nothing  sees  or  feels  the  stroke  of  grief. 

With  such  great  promise  let  the  searching  mind 
Rejoice  to  think  of  what  a  wondrous  fate 

There  is  in  store,  and  bless  the  hand  so  kind 
Which  made  the  realm  His  all-divine  estate. 


LIBERTY'S   ADDRESS   TO   THE    PATRIOTS 

OF    1775. 

ISE,  patriots  of  a  virgin  realm, 
And  from  yourselves  shake  every  fear. 
And  bravely  grasp  the  battle  helm 
And  raise  the  flag  you  love  so  dear. 


R 


no  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

For  now  the  time,  the  daybeam  breaks, 
The  host  is  holding  servile  sway. 

Your  liberties  with  smiles  they  take. 
They  've  come  for  battle,  not  for  play. 

My  children  were  not  born  for  chains, 
They  are  holy  heirs  to  heaven  and  earth 

Their  liberty  is  God's  domain, 

His  footstool  is  their  glorious  hearth. 

Rise,  then,  my  heroes,  lift  that  blade 
And  gird  that  armor  ever  bright, 

And  make  your  life's  last  pilgrimage 
In  laboring  for  the  down-trod  right. 

When  battle's  awful  knell  is  rung 
Take  courage  and  be  ever  brave, 

For  in  the  strife,  ages  to  come 

Will  ever  guard  your  field  and  grave. 

Ten  thousand  thousands  songs  shall  rise, 
As  centuries  roll  their  flights  so  vast, 

A  thousand  shafts  will  pierce  the  skies, 
A  thousand  souls  in  marble  cast. 

Your  day  will  be  a  glorious  day. 

Your  names  will  perish  with  the  stone, 

No  age  but  what  will  ever  pay 
Due  homage  for  this  act  alone. 

Fight,  if  the  sunbeam  of  your  hope 
Beclouded  is  with  strife's  dark  ray, 

Then  fight  again  until  it  's  broke. 
Fight  till  the  foe  be  swept  away. 


THE  PEN  OE  LONGEELLOW. 


THE    PEN    OF    LONGFELLOW. 

THAT  noble  pen  has  done, 
To  write  the  sparks  of  thought, 
A  monument  it's  won. 

It  stands  with  garlands  fraught. 

Its  beauty  is  a  star 

Within  the  mental  sphere, 
It  shines  but  not  afar, 

Its  worth  is  ever  dear. 

Genius  beside  it  stands. 

It  honors  him  to  be, 
He  ruled  it  long  and  grand 

For  God  and  for  the  free. 

Each  stone  the  poet  laid 

Is  firm  upon  the  base. 
His  work  to  starland  made 

America  to  grace. 

He  's  great  without  a  stain 

Of  blood  of  fellowman. 
And  such  the  noblest  name 

That  does  exist  or  can. 

Time  has  his  glory  now 

To  save  for  ages  yet ; 
We  know  he  '11  wreath  the  brow. 

His  name  we  '11  ne'er  forget. 


POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


None  in  his  sacred  trust 
Will  shine  more  sweetly  on, 

Than  our  loved  poet  must, 
New  EnMand's  honored  son. 


TICONDEROGA,    1775. 

THE  silent  stars  were  brightly  shining 
In  the  western  skies  at  morn, 
When  patriots  were  for  freedom  planning 
And  had  round  the  fortress  drawn. 

Soon  Colonel  Ethan  Allen,  rapping 

Loudly  on  the  fortress  door, 
From  slumbers  waking  up  the  captain, 

Demanded  both  keys  and  store. 

The  British  guardian  of  the  fortress 
Asked,  "  By  whose  word  does  it  fall  ?  " 

"Heaven  and  the  continental  Congress," 
Allen  answered — they  are  all. 

Dowm  England's  mighty  flag  that  morning 
Went  beneath  the  feet  of  men, 

And  freedom's  folds  went  up  rejoicing 
Born  to  outlive  diadem. 


JOHN  BROWN'S  MONUMENT.  113 


JOHN    BROWN'S    MONUMENT   RAISED    AT 
NORTH    ELBA,    N.    Y.,    JULY    21,    1896. 

A   GRATEFUL  state,  with  depth  of  heart, 
With  zeal  which  all  will  yet  impart 
For  liberty's  great  son. 
Has  raised  a  monument  to  him. 
More  grand  in  purpose  than  a  king, 
More  proud  since  nation's  won. 

For  he  fought  not  for  glory's  sake, 
Fought  not  for  honor,  nor  for  state, 

But  fought  for  bondaged  man. 
And  for  that  cause  a  martyr's  grave 
Was  all  the  old  Dominion  gave 

For  his  great  God-like  plan. 

New  England  heard  his  dreadful  doom. 
All  heaven  was  shaded  then  with  gloom, 

O'er  that  stupendous  deed. 
The  mighty  West,  with  giant  arms 
Began  that  day  to  meet  alarms, 

For  each  brave  heart  did  bleed. 

The  boyhood  years  were  on  my  cheek. 
But  yet  I  heard  my  mother  speak, 

And  saw  her  falling  tear, 
When  this  good  man  of  God's  own  will 
Was  sent  a  mission  to  fulfil, 

But  fell  in  prime  of  years. 


114  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

My  mother  said  :  "  Who  could  thwart  God, 
Or  dare  avenge  him  when  he  nods, 

And  take  his  child  to  kill  ! '' 
And  all  the  nation  heard  Him  speak 
From  ocean  unto  ocean  deep, 

Till  all  revered  His  will  ; 

Till  blood  was  ransomed  back  for  blood 
And  carnage,  for  four  years  a  flood, 

To  pay  the  cruel  debt. 
The  nation  rocked  in  throes  of  death 
With  agonies  at  every  breath 

And  every  eye  was  wet. 

But  when  the  cup  was  full,  God's  wrath 
Was  then  appeased,  and  then  the  path 

Lay  bright  and  clear,  and  all 
Could  see  how  just  and  pure  the  war; 
For  it  was  great  Jehovah's  law 

And  grand  each  martyr's  fall. 

To-day  New  England's  staunch  old  heart 
Is  just  as  soft  and  will  impart 

Some  tribute  to  his  fame, 
Whether  be  rock  piled  up  on  rock, 
Or  chiseled  granite's  time  to  mock. 

Will  be  in  heart  the  same. 

Yes,  his  sad  death  is  gravened  here. 
It's  in  our  memory  and  our  tear  ; 
As  on  the  nation's  heart 


y^A"  ODE   TO   SPRING.  115 

He,  foremost  in  God's  plan  for  right, 
The  first  to  fall  amid  the  fight 
Immortal  for  his  start. 

And  as  his  monument  shall  stand. 
So  telling,  on  his  sweet  birthland 

Looking  to  mountains  far. 
So  may  the  race  look  up  to  him, 
Whose  death  their  freedom  day  did  haste, 

A  harbinger  of  war. 

And  as  the  ages  roll  away 
Shall  passions  of  the  war  decay 

And  all  united  be  ? 
Shall  brother's  hand  clasp  brother's  hand 
Beside  this  monument  so  grand. 

Their  son  of  liberty  ? 

Shall  eagle's  grace  with  southern  wreaths. 
Shall  young  Columbia  bring  her  sheaves 

This  pile  of  rock  to  crown, 
And  generations  of  the  free. 
Long  sing  his  name  from  sea  to  sea. 

And  deeds  of  good  John  Brown  ? 


H 


AN    ODE    TO    SPRING. 

OW  patiently  does  nature  wait. 

With  folded  arms  beside  thy  gate. 
To  hear  thy  bolts  when  drawn  ; 


For  long  the  tedious  winter's  moan 


ii6  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

Has  made  her  throbbing  bosom  groan, 
To  once  more  smile  upon  her  throne 
And  hail  the  budding  dawn, 

Alas,  she  smiles,  and  fields  aglow 
With  flowers  the  sweetest  seem  to  grow 

In  vales  and  mountain  side  ; 
And  all  the  prospect  blooming  round, 
And  groves  are  vocal  with  the  sound, 
Where  birds  in  merriment  abound. 

To  swell  the  joyous  tide. 

She  gave  the  hills  a  crovv'n  of  flowers; 
She  gave  a  vernal  hue  to  bowers, 

And  graced  the  many  plains. 
We  hear  her  footfall  in  the  streams. 
Her  voice  in  birds  that  sing  serene, 
Her  life  in  every  leaf  of  green. 

Her  smile  in  morninor's  flame. 


MIND    IN    AMERICA. 

MIND  in  America  is  free  ; 
It  has  no  prison  walls. 
No  hand  of  state  to  guide. 
No  church  that  dares  provide 
Those  old  and  cruel  thralls. 

Mind  is  the  gift  of  God, 

The  mental  life  of  man, 


MIND   IN  AMERICA.  n? 

The  part  that  cannot  die. 
Its  Giver  from  on  high 

Hath  wrought  it  in  his  plan. 

America  we  love  to  hail, 

For  here  we  see  its  power, 
Here  mind  can  praise  its  God, 
It  has  no  sovereign  rod — 

Free  all  and  every  hour. 

Mind  is  the  mine  of  wealth, 

It  should  by  right  be  free ; 
It  guides  the  guardian  hand, 
The  watch-tower  of  our  land, 

The  rock  of  liberty. 

Mind  is  a  realm  that  every  man 

Has  free  for  his  own  good, 
His  duty  first  to  sow  the  seed 
To  make  a  rich  and  fruitful  mead. 

Or  all  those  duties  should. 

To  keep  America  so  free 

Where  mind  can  have  its  sway, 
What  must  these  sovereign  people  do 
To  have  the  path  made  clear  and  true 
For  all  the  coming  days? 

The  church,  the  school,  the  press  we  say 

Have  made  our  nation  great. 
But  patriotism,  which  is  love. 
For  country,  home,  and  God  above. 
Will  also  save  the  state. 


ii8  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


THE    THOUGHT    OF    OLD    AGE. 

^^  /^"^OULD  I  once  more  to  youthful  age  return 
V^   And  have  that  cheek  that  long  with  health 
did  burn  ! 
Oh,  for  a  world  to  ransom  back  the  days 
Of  toil  already  spent  undue  of  praise  !  " 
This  was  the  wish  my  aged  father  gave 
A  few  short  weeks  before  he  filled  the  grave. 
I  well  remember  the  glad  year  that  came 
For  me  to  vote,  and  rights  as  man  to  claim  ; 
And  we  to  Kingstown  went,  and  I  think  passed 
The  polls  together — the  first  time  and  the  last, 
If  memory  serves  me  well.      For  he  was  old. 
And  I  was  young,  with  mind  all  new  as  gold. 
I  w^ell  remember  him  ;  he  stood  among 
A  large  concourse  of  people,  old  and  young; 
He  gazed  around  for  faces  once  he  knew. 
They  passed  before  him,  for  he  saw  but  few 
Of  those  that  used  to  meet  town-meeting  days, 
And  greet  each  other  with  their  usual  ways. 
I  stood  and  looked  upon  my  father  there, 
Who  once  was  strong,  robust,  and  very  fair; 
Now  bent  with  age  and  work,  and  spirits  low, 
For  one  and  all  the  scythe  of  time  will  mow. 
He  still  stood  looking  as  I  came  within 
His  gaze,  perhaps  a  rod  or  so  from  him. 
He  said,  "  Well,  Jeffery,  can  this  be  you  ? 
The  only  face  I  've  seen  I  really  knew% 
Except  my  neighbors,  and  they  are  not  here. 


ETERNITY.  119 


The  hill  looks  natural,  but  things  don't  appear 

As  did  some  fifty  years  ago  or  more, 

For  then  I  knew  full  half  that  passed  before 

Me  ;  but  now  how  few  I  seem  to  know. 

But  age,  you  see,  has  made  things  thus  and  so.' 

Is  this  our  fate,  is  this  the  young  man's  lot. 

By  his  own  friends,  when  old,  to  be  forgot  ? 

The  younger  generations  taking  lead, 

And  of  the  older  paying  little  heed  ? 

Let  every  youth  deep  reverence  pay  to  age, 

For  such  we  '11  want  in  the  last  pilgrimage. 


ETERNITY. 

AS  early  daylight  swept  o'er  the  field 
And  filled  the  valleys  with  a  sleepy  mist, 
A  worthy  thought  to  my  weak  mind  revealed — 
How  in  eternity  should  we  exist.'' 

Shall  we  be  there,  as  countless  ages  roll. 
To  view  the  splendor  and  rejoice  therein  ? 

Or  will  each  be  a  sad,  dejected  soul, 
Forever  laboring  under  awful  sin  ! 

Shall  we  behold  forever  things  as  grand 
As  the  sweet  promise  on  the  golden  page, 

Where  the  eternal  holds  a  welcomed  hand 
To  all  the  world,  the  same  from  age  to  age  ? 


POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


For  well  we  know  eternity  is  one 

Vast  space,  which  thought  nor  limit  bounds,  but 
how 
Shall  we  this  future  spend,  where  there's  no  sun 

To  set  upon  our  joys  or  troubled  brow  ? 

Now  will  there  be  no  foreign  shores  to  hail, 
A  desert  with  no  cool,  reviving  stream, 

A  torrid  sky  with  no  refreshing  gale, 

A  realm  unnoticed  by  the  Eye  supreme  ? 


Or  will  we  meet  with  Him  who  held  the  sea 

Within  His  hand  and  formed  the  planetary  state  ? 

Will  not  we  think,  then,  vast  eternity 

Is  none  too  long  to  live  with  Him,  so  great  ? 


STATUE    OF    COLUMBUS    UNVEILED    IN 
CHICAGO. 

THE  man  of  oceans  and  of  worlds, 
Of  continents  and  nations  great ; 
The  man  whose  wisdom  spanned 
The  earth  around  and  planned 
The  course  to  navigate  and  find 
Those  western  shores,  is  here  unveiled 
In  marble  for  mankind  to  hail. 

Great  country  of  our  own,  from  shore 
To  shore  we  render  heartfelt  praise 


STATUE  OF  COLUMBUS  UNVEILED.      121 

For  him  who  was  so  orood, 

Yet  little  understood. 
In  life  his  fate  so  harsh,  unjust, 
Which  almost  brings  a  world  in  tears 
To  think  upon  his  last,  sad  years. 


The  crowning  glory  of  his  day 
Was  battling  with  the  ocean's  might. 
Their  vastness  was  no  fear, 
Their  tempests  drew  no  tear, — 
The  waves,  the  wind,  the  awful  storm 
Were  managed  with  a  will  and  power 
That  made  him  conqueror  every  hour. 

These  vast  United  States  cannot 
Extend  a  praise  that 's  not  his  due ; 
No  flag  that  is  unfurled 
Upon  the  western  w^orld 
But  what  great  homage  owes  to  him; 
No  land  nor  government  so  great 
But  what  they  owe  to  him  the  state. 

How  can  we  praise  his  glorious  name 
Who  has  the  first  right  to  his  fame, 

More  than  the  world  at  large  ! 

It  all  has  him  in  charp:e. 
All  will  his  lasting  victory  tell, 
And  all  will  lend  some  day  a  hand 
To  build  his  monument  so  grand  ! 

Where  shall  it  stand  1     I  see  its  dome 
Lift  up  to  cloudland  by  the  main ; 


122  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

Flags  of  the  western  world 
Around  it  all  unfurled ; 
Upon  its  top-most  crown  a  ship 
Of  gold,  with  bows  thrown  off  to  sea, 
Our  hero  at  its  helm  with  Liberty  ! 


MASSASOITS    ARRIVAL    IN    NEWPORT. 

^^  I  "WAS  midday  and  the  seas  were  rough, 
JL      Late  by  the  storms  annoyed, 

And  vision  far  beyond  the  bluffs. 
To  keenest  eyes  destroyed. 

But  tars  impatient  scan  the  bay, 

Some  inbound  sail  to  spy. 
When  presently  o'er  weaves  away 

A  sea-tossed  craft  descry. 

They  watch  amused  to  see  it  glide 

The  billows  as  they  rise, 
Then  lost  between  the  rolling  tide 

To  all  discerning  eyes. 

How  strong  the  arms  must  be,  they  say. 

To  push  it  on  so  fast. 
For  swift  it  speeds  through  ocean  spray 

And  on  against  the  blast. 

Some  said  they  knew  the  sachem's  boat. 
And  some  had  seen  the  king ; 


OUR  ASSASSINATED    GARFIELD.        123 


They  all  declared  't  was  him  afloat, 
Some  earnest  deed  to  bring. 

And  when  its  bows  the  breakers  prest, 

For  then  each  one  could  see 
T  was  Massasoit,  ever  blest 

In  memory  of  the  free. 

The  news  then  filled  the  little  town 

That  Massasoit  was  near, 
And  all  the  people  soon  came  down 

To  see  the  king  appear. 

The  royal  boat  unbannered  ploughed 

The  billows  high  and  grand, 
A  few  more  strokes,  he  beached  its  bows 
Upon  the  beaten  sands. 


OUR    ASSASSINATED    GARFIELD. 

COLUMBIA'S  shore  now  mourns  for  thee, 
Our  virtuous  son  of  sweetest  fame. 
What  tribute  must  from  sea  to  sea 
Be  given  to  thy  most  gracious  name  ! 
All  bent  in  sorrow  o'er  thy  bier, 
We  drop  each  one  a  heart-felt  tear, 
And  memory  long  will  hold  you  dear 
Through  centuries  on. 


124  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


Thy  death  has  sorrowed  -very  heart 
Within  the  Christian  lands  around, 
To  think  thy  God-like  life  must  part 
Before  thy  brightest  days  are  crowned. 
But  God  knows  best.     His  wisdom's  past 
Our  mortal  keen,  like  oceans  vast 
Are  all  his  ways  !  bless  him  who  hast 
His  love  and  song. 


THE    FRENCH    ASSISTING    AMERICA. 

WHO  can  forget  ten  thousand  brave 
Who  crossed  the  broad  Atlantic  wave. 
Our  Liberty  of  old  to  save, 

From  kings  unjust 
Who  fought  to  keep  us  down  as  slaves. 
Then  fight  we  must. 

We  turn  our  proud  historic  page 
Back  to  that  long  illustrious  age, 
And  see  the  names  that  were  engaged, 

And  read  their  deeds. 
With  them  we  battled  England's  rage 

On  sea  and  mead. 

And  first  of  those  we  honor  yet 
Was  the  immortal  Lafayette  ; 
And  Rochambeau  we  ne'er  forget. 


PATRIOTISM   OF  LAFAYETTE.  125 

For  them  we  owe, 
While  Diestaeiiges  proud  deck  was  wet 
From  carnage  flow. 

De  Grasse,  too,  is  bright  in  fame, 

For  he  struck  terror  to  the  main. 

And  George  the  Third  did  fight  in  vain 

His  ships  of  power. 
Let  freedom's  hilltops  sound  his  name 

Each  day  and  hour. 

The  sterling  hearts  from  foreign  lands 
That  fell  at  sea  and  by  the  strand, 
Deserve  a  flower  from  every  hand, 

And  tongues  to  tell, — 
Would  we  America  command 

Unless  they  fell. 

Pause,  freemen,  and  reflect  and  know 
That  we,  in  those  dark  days  of  woe, 
Were  struggling  with  a  mighty  foe 

With  power  and  will ; 
France  saw  our  need  and  gave  the  blow 

That  fell  to  kill. 


THE    PATRIOTISM    OF    LAFAYETTE. 

THE  stately  name  of  Lafayette 
Stands  as  a  mighty  pier 
Beneath  the  glorious  bridge  that  spans 
The  chasm  of  our  battle  lands 
To  fields  more  rich  and  dear. 


126  POEMS   OF  NEIV  E^f GLAND. 


Ah,  when  the  engineers  of  old 

Drafted  this  structure  grand, 
Who  then  would  come  to  give  support 
Much  less  to  leave  a  royal  court, 
From  honor,  wealth,  and  land  ? 

But  Lafayette  for  freedom's  cause 
Crossed  ocean  broad  and  deep, 
And  volunteered  with  hands  to  hold 
The  piers  and  arch  of  pearl  and  gold 
To  make  the  cause  complete. 

These  piers  of  gold  and  spans  of  pearl 

Did  rest  on  honored  forms 
Who  fought  in  those  illustrious  days. 
Or  acted  for  the  nation's  praise 
In  state  and  battle's  storm. 


THE   SWORD    OF   WASHINGTON, 

THE  sword  of  Washington,  I  sing, 
Immortal  blade  of  yore. 
Whose  victory  made  creation  ring. 
And  won  for  us  the  shore. 

To-day  that  glittering  arm  is  sheathed 

Upon  our  walls  of  state, 
While  eighty  millions  stand  to  wreathe 

And  guard  its  memory  great. 


THE  SWORD    OF  irASHIA'GTON.         127 

The  victories  this  sword  hath  won 

Can  never  half  be  told  ; 
Mountain  that  rises  to  the  sun 

And  made  of  solid  gold, 

Could  not  our  liberties  have  bought 

As  this  old  sword  has  done  ; 
Could  not  been  with  such  laurels  fraught. 

And  we  no  Washington. 

But  when  we  think  of  those  grand  days 

When  it  began  to  shine, — 
'T  was  when  the  world  began  to  praise 

The  purpose  and  design. 

All  men  looked  on  its  infant  beams. 

Upon  the  Cambridge  Heights, 
And  there  with  loyalty  supreme 

Did  our  great  foes  invite. 

The  night  he  crossed  the  Delaware, 

With  winter's  storms  abroad. 
The  foe  at  Trenton  grief  did  share 

From  young  Columbia's  lord. 

At  Princeton,  too,  that  sabre  flash 

A  thousand  looked,  but  fate 
Came  with  the  awful  battle  crash, 

And  England's  loss  was  great. 

At  Flatbush  long  the  hostile  power 
Cheered  on  the  well-fought  plain  ; 


128  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

At  White  Plains,  too,— ill-fated  hour — 
The  patriot  fell  in  vain. 

But  Monmouth's  long  immortal  fields 

We  never  can  forget, 
Where  enemies  were  made  to  yield, 

For  this  brave  sword  was  wet. 

At  Germantown  and  Brandywine 
Its  radiance  flashed  on  high, 

But  royal  arms  swung  back  his  lines 
To  flee  or  stand  and  die. 

The  summer's  sun  and  winter's  storm, 
And  changing  seasons  roll. 

But  yet  the  sword  of  Washington 
Our  destinies  controlled. 

And  when  the  last  great  day  had  come 

On  Yorktown's  shore  afar. 
And  Lord  Cornwallis  was  undone 


This  grand  old  sword  of  glorious  birth 
Flashed  'round  the  world  its  beam. 

And  ever  since  has  all  the  earth 
Revered  it  as  supreme. 

This  grand  old  sword  of  Washington, 
Our  priceless  heirloom  given. 

Borne  from  the  angry  battle  storms 
By  arms  which  fought  for  heaven. 


THE  STAFF   OF  FRANKLIN.  129 


THE    STAFF    OF    FRANKLIN. 

HOW  proud  we  young  Columbians  feel 
To  have  this  grand  old  staff, 
Whose  usefulness  had  been  with  him, 
In  presence  of  Louis  the  king. 
Acting  in  our  behalf. 

In  those  great  days  our  nation  then 
Was  young  and  wanted  strength, 

Its  bulwarks  were  the  souls  of  men 

Whose  patriotism  was  a  gem 

That  shines  the  world's  full  length. 

Young  as  we  were,  and  brave  in  heart. 

Our  courage,  too,  was  bold  ; 
But  yet  a  helping  hand  was  sweet. 
And  France  held  out  one  to  complete 

Those  victories  of  old. 

Franklin,  when  in  the  royal  court. 

Our  early  cause  in  hand. 
With  staff  and  cloak,  himself  a  king 
Who  had  our  cause,  and  none  but  him 

Could  done  so  well  and  grand. 

After  the  patriot  arms  had  won 

On  Saratoga's  field. 
His  cause  began  to  take  the  form  ; 
For  really  men  saw  there  was  born 

Something:  that  would  not  vi^ld 


30  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


And  France  lent  aid,  and  Franklin's  faith 

Was  never  dark  nor  drear; 
Firm  as  the  old  staff  which  he  bore, 
That  his  United  States  would  more 

Than  pay  for  blood  and  tears. 

This  staff  assisted  long  the  sage 
Through  his  last  walks  of  life; 
We  see  him  'neath  the  tempest  cloud, 
While  heaven  with  its  red  storm  was  loud, 
Shaking  the  world  with  strife. 

We  see  him  'neath  the  throne  of  France 

Imploring  for  our  state. 
While  his  new  shores  with  battle  throes 
Were  agonizing  with  the  woes 

From  George  the  Third,  so  great. 

This  grand  old  cane,  yes,  let  it  hang 

A  blessing  to  the  free  ! 
It's  been  with  him  through  all  the  years. 
When  our  great  country  thrilled  with  fears, 

Sweet  gift  to  Liberty  ! 


SOME   THOUGHTS    FOR   THE    FUTURE. 

WE  sit  down  'mid  the  cares  of  life 
And  think  what  would  become  of  those 
Who  may  depend  upon  our  hands. 
As  well  as  work's  unfinished  stands, 
If  we  should  leave  the  scene  of  strife. 


THE  LABORING  MAN.  131 


But  years  roll  in  and  cares  grow  more, 
While  age  advances  with  a  tread 
More  firm  than  Napoleon's  power, 
Or  Sherman's  mighty  host  that  hour 
When  met  the  broad  Atlantic  shore. 

What  is  a  life  but  care  and  woe  ? 
How  can  a  summer  harvest  bring 
Unless  the  sky  is  dark  with  storm, 
And  each  green  leaf  is  almost  gone 
Before  the  tempest  or  the  blow  ! 

Firm  as  our  hold  on  life  may  be, 
Yet  some  sad  day  our  grip  must  fall. 
And  all  our  cares  and  works  must  cease 
Whether  the  soul  find  death  or  peace, 
Our  tide  is  ebbing  out  to  sea. 

So  let  our  work  and  care  each  day 
Come  to  a  close  as  near  as  can, 
Each  morning  with  a  hand  to  do. 
Each  evening  with  a  prayer  that 's  true. 
That  all  be  well  when  we  ^o  way. 


THE    LABORING    MAN. 

A  HAPPY  man  is  one  that  works, — 
An  adage  long  and  true ; 
A  man  of  misery,  one  that  shirks 
The  things  he  ought  to  do. 


132  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

I  know  it  by  experience, — 
Such  knowledge  is  the  best ; 

I  thank  the  all-wise  Providence 
For  His  divine  bequest. 

A  man  gets  married  and  begins 
With  nothing  but  his  hands  ; 

He  finds  it  takes  the  very  vim 
Of  life  to  all  withstand. 

Or,  if  a  man  gets  once  in  debt, 
And  meets  with  some  reverse, 

Then  all  his  labors  seem  beset, 
And  then  w^hat  can  be  worse  ! 

The  labor  is  not  sweet  at  all, — 
A  thousand  are  so  caught  — 

And  happiness  is  dreadful  small. 
With  strife  and  sorrow  fraught. 

But  to  be  happy  we  must  save 

The  pennies  as  they  come. 
To  guard  against  affliction's  wave. 

That  washes  every  home. 

Not  think  we  're  rich  when  we  have  got 

One  hundred  dollars  free  ; 
But  save  right  on,  and  never  stop 

Until  it's  three  times  three. 

Then,  if  your  labor  pays  you  well, 
Keep  right  along  the  same  ; 

Perhaps  you  've  struck  the  vein  that  tells, 
And  fortune  grace  your  name. 


BOi'S,    BUY  A    HOME.  I33 


BOYS,    BUY    A    HOME. 

THERE  is  a  home  for  those  who  toil 
Waiting  for  them  somewhere, — 
Some  pebbled  stream,  some  healthful  soil, 
Some  spot  repaying  care. 

Some  fertile  glade  where  virtuous  hands 
Have  not  its  worth  destroyed, 

Or  some  old  home  with  orchard  lands 
Where  labor  once  enjoyed. 

I  've  seen  a  change  in  my  old  place 

Since  I  was  but  a  lad  ; 
Homes  where  no  sorrow  had  its  trace 

Are  now  all  lone  and  sad. 

Those  places  now  have  all  been  sold. 

By  diligence  I  've  got 
A  part  of  one  by  hard-earned  gold, 

Beside  my  playground  spot. 

And  so  you  see  these  pleasant  hearths 

Were  waiting  then  for  me  ; 
Could  I  believe  those  homes  of  worth 

Were  fated  so  to  be ! 

No,  I  could  not :  but  still  I  've  saved 
My  dollars  as  they  've  come, 

And  kept  myself  a  busy  slave 
Until  I  had  a  home. 


134  POEAfS   OF  XEIV  ENGLAND 

And  now  my  home  is  earned  and  free 

For  all  claims  there  upon  ; 
I  'm  everywhere  I  want  to  be, 

If  it 's  to  bed  at  morn. 

I  seek  the  shade  in  noontide  heat, 
I  write  and  read  and  laugh ; 

Nothing  to  urge  from  my  retreat, 
Unless  some  joy  to  quaff. 

I  hear  not  on  my  door  at  morn 

A  quick  and  hasty  rap, 
By  some  old  surly,  hoary  form, 

Before  I  've  done  my  nap, 

Inviting  me  some  debt  to  pay. 

No,  no  ;  my  boys,  it 's  o'er  ; 
I  sleep,  if  wish,  to  blooming  day, — 

Untouched  my  outside  door. 

Now  do  not  think  I  mean  to  boast 

Of  my  dependent  life. 
For  wants  come  in  some  days  by  hosts 

To  lend  my  joys  some  strife. 

I  only  want  to  tell  you  now, 
Each  one  can  treasure  find; 

But  to  obtain  you  must  allow 
It 's  soothing  to  the  mind. 

Now  try  to  let  your  paths  some  day 
Be  strewed  with  flowers  of  ease. 

The  world  will  seem  more  bright  and  gay 
And  joy  our  wants  appease. 


BATTLE   OF  RHODE  ISLAND.  13- 


BATTLE  OF  RHODE  ISLAND,  AUG.  29,  1778. 

IN  Revolutionary  days, 
When  these  United  States 
Were  taking  form  to  be  a  land 
Of  principle  and  freedom  grand 
For  children  long  to  praise, 

The  king's  strong  fleet  and  army,  too, 

Lay  in  Rhode  Island  realm  ; 
His  fleet  on  Narragansett  Bay, 
His  troops  on  Portsmouth's  hill  away. 

Ready  to  act  and  do. 

Newport  was  pillaged  of  its  food. 

The  farms  of  forage  stripped  ; 
The  cattle  of  a  hundred  hills 
Were  sent  the  royal  arms,  to  fill 

The  foe  in  hostile  mood. 

DeGrasse's  fleet  was  on  the  wave. 

To  conquer  if  they  could. 
While  Washington  and  Lafayette, 
With  Sullivan  and  Greene,  to  get 

Behind  their  camp,  as  brave. 

A  storm  had  swept  the  fleets  to  sea, 

While  yet  the  land  force  stood 
With  attitude  of  courage  firm, 
Each  man,  like  walls  or  guns  as  stern, 

Awaiting  the  decree. 


136  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

While  Washington,  with  wisdom  great, 

Planned  the  attack  for  war, 
And  crossed  the  Rowland  ferry  bridge 
And  camped  beyond  upon  the  ridge, 
His  mighty  foe  to  wait. 

When  soon  the  fatal  gun  was  heard, 

The  battle  blast  was  on  ; 
The  royal  host  skirt  every  mead, 
They  rush,  they  press  up,  but  to  bleed,- 

The  depths  of  war  were  stirred  ! 

Rhode  Island's  stanch  militia  fought, 

Her  troops  were  there,  as  well ; 
New  England's  valor  filled  the  field, — 
Mighty  to  fight  and  hard  to  yield — 
With  early  laurels  fraught. 

The  English,  also,  knew  that  fight 

Was  their  last  quarter  given. 
For  they  were  pent  upon  an  isle. 
And  if  their  fortune  should  not  smile, 
Their  hope  was  dark  as  night. 

So  every  soldier  of  the  king 

Fought  with  a  zeal  and  might. 
And  patriot  arms  began  to  feel 
The  fury  of  the  British  steel ; 
For  it  was  used  with  vim. 

As  closer,  with  determined  power. 
They  press  the  patriot  hills, 


AT   THE  BATTLE    OE  STONTVGTOiV.     137 

Until  their  lines  must  fall  away; 
For  dreadful  had  become  the  fray, 
And  fateful  was  the  hour. 

Wise  every  day  was  Washington, 

And  hence  he  gave  the  field. 
And  royal  banners  crowned  the  hills 
And  soldiers  with  new  life  w^ere  filled. 

For  they  had  fought  and  won  1 


FATHER   AT   THE    BATTLE    OF    STONING- 
TON,  AUG.   14,   1813. 

BRILLIANTLY  the  day  was  setting 
O'er  the  Pequot  summer  fields, 
When  'twas  whispered,  England's  coming. 
And  all  Stonington  must  yield  ! 

Bravely  stood  one  in  the  column 
And  looked  on  the  ships  of  war, 

As  they  sent  the  shell  and  rocket 
To  the  burning  town  afar. 

Valiantly  stood  all  New  England 

In  those  angry  days  of  strife. 
And  a  power  stood  firm  as  mountains 

'Round  its  freedom-loving  life. 

It  was  those  stanch  boys  of  battle 
Who  prepared  themselves  that  day 


138  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

To  resist  the  mighty  Briton, 
If  they  landed  for  a  fray. 

But  the  war  host  never  landed, 

So  the  valor  of  the  few 
Never  had  a  chance  to  thunder 

Out  their  vengeance  on  the  crew. 

If  they  all  had  been  like  father, 
Dreadful  small  a  victory  been  ; 

For  he  was  as  brave  as  could  be, 
Neither  'fraid  of  ship  nor  men. 

And  I  do  presume  his  comrades 
Were  of  mettle  like  to  him. 

For  we  know  it  took  brave  soldiers 
To  encounter  George  the  king. 

And  to  speak  no  more  of  valor. 
And  to  judge  from  one  I  knew, 

England  acted  with  the  wisest 

When  her  ships  and  men  withdrew. 


I 


OUR   NEW    NAVY. 


N  this  great  engineering  age 


Our  country  turns  another  page 

Whereon  to  see. 
And  there  we  find  't  is  wise  to  make 
A  sure  defence  unto  the  state 

While  we  are  free. 


OUR   NEW  NAVY.  I39 


It 's  not  the  deep  intent  at  heart, 
While  we  such  measures  do  impart, 

Intending  strife; 
Oh,  no.     The  day  is  past,  it 's  gone ; 
We  will  not  sound  the  battle  horn 

Only  for  life. 

These  grand  new  steel-clad  ships,  so  strong. 
Whose  majesty  now  lifts  my  song, 

Are  but  our  pride. 
May  they  no  sure  offence  portend. 
But  only  our  defense  and  friend 

When  foes  decide. 

May  our  wise  statesmen  ever  hold 
And  fondle  them,  like  dolls  of  gold, 

Within  their  arms ; 
Or  let  the  skies  above  embrace 
And  wild  storms  rock  them  in  the  race 

When  winds  alarm. 

A  thousand  keels  may  grace  the  wave, 
A  thousand  bows  the  ocean  brave. 

Peace  to  invite. 
Humanity  must  be  the  strife. 
Or  mankind  rising  for  its  life. 

For  them  to  fight. 

On  whatsoever  main  they  roam. 
May  they  reveal  the  light  of  home, 
So  sweet  and  dear  ! 


40  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

They  're  built  to  voice  Columbia's  heart, 
Her  love  and  glory  to  impart, 
Without  a  fear. 


POTTER'S    POND. 

IN  days  gone  by,  at  Perryville, 
There  used  to  be  a  pond. 
Where  passersby  would  seek  their  hll ; 
Their  horse,  as  well,  was  fond. 

But  fifty  years  ago  and  more 

The  water  sank  away, 
And  left  its  old,  wave-beaten  shore 

With  all  its  shapes  to-day. 

The  weeds  and  grass  have  grown  apace, 

And  stone  walls  also  guard 
This  old,  historic  watering-place, 

Of  which  has  fate  been  hard. 

The  men  whose  works  the  nation  made 

When  on  the  Pequot  Path, 
Like  Franklin,  on  his  pilgrimage, 

And  men  of  battle  wrath, 

Like  Washington  and  Sullivan, 

Of  Schuyler  and  of  Greene, 
Who  led  the  patriot  union  van 

Through  those  deep,  stirring  scenes, 


GRANT  AT  FORT  DONELSON.  141 

And  doubtless  these  great  men  of  old 
Have  turned  their  steeds  to  drink 

Down  the  steep  way,  so  rough  and  bold, 
To  its  delightful  brink. 


GRANT   AT    FORT    DONELSON. 

A  SOLDIER  from  a  Western  town. 
When  heard  the  news  of  war, 
Laid  all  his  daily  labors  down 

To  meet  the  foe  afar, 
And  wildly  mid  the  battle  smoke. 

With  comrades  brave  he  sprung, 
And  fought  till  their  huge  column  broke 
The  rebel  strength  at  Donelson. 

Upon  the  banks  of  Cumberland 

His  battle-field  was  red. 
The  hillsides  of  his  great  command 

Were  quaking  with  his  tread  ; 
But  'neath  his  feet  the  rebel  flag 

Fell  down  in  battle  done, 
For  'twas  a  world's  insulting  rag. 

And  could  not  live  at  Donelson. 

The  starry  folds  born  not  to  die 

On  that  tremendous  field. 
But  destined  to  remain  on  high 

Till  soldiers  all  should  yield, 


142  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

Or  long  as  they  Grant's  war  horse  see 

Bearing  its  rider  on  ; 
They  made  the  fields  a  jubilee, — 

The  blood-stained  hills  of  Donelson. 

For  twenty  thousand  rebel  men 

Stack  up  their  guns  that  day; 
The  Union  was  too  much  for  them, 

Though  well  they  fought  the  fray. 
Around  the  world  his  triumph  rolled, 

A  victory  timely  won, 
For  here  secession's  mighty  hold 

Was  rent  away  at  Donelson. 


SLAVERY. 

DOWN  deep  into  Columbian's  soil 
The  germ  of  war  had  sent  its  root, 
Mighty  the  tree  that  grew  the  while 

And  far  its  poisonous  branches  shoot, 
Until  the  fair  hills  of  her  fame 
Were  but  the  shadows  of  a  name. 
This  awful  tree  was  planted  when 
America  enslaved  its  men. 

This  battle  seed  of  long  ago 

Had  grown  to  mountain's  strength  and  height ; 
The  broad  fields  of  our  new-born  world 

Were  doomed  to  grow  its  dreadful  might; 


SLAVERY.  143 


And  who  could  battle  down  its  power, 
And  who  could  lead  the  fearful  hour, 
For  Freedom's  heart  must  surely  break, — 
Her  land  for  Freedom  was  at  stake. 

The  great  God  of  universal  worlds 

Looked  down  with  kindly  eyes  on  man, 
Until  he  saw  that  every  hope 

Was  lost  in  slavery's  cruel  plan  ; 
And  soon  the  showing  of  his  hand 
INlust  be  once  more  to  save  the  land, 
For  he  was  God,  and  man  was  man. 
And  man  and  God  fought  slavery's  plan. 

His  sad,  deep  hours  of  anguish  long 
Had  fixed  the  limits  of  that  shade 
Of  this  tall  tree.     And  it  must  fall 

Upon  the  ground  whose  life  had  made. 
And  when  he  called  his  laborers  on 
To  then  avenge  the  nation's  wrong. 
The  strife  was  well,  for  he  was  there. 
And  who  against  his  judgments  dare  ! 

But  high  above  the  dreadful  storm 

The  beam  of  justice  could  be  seen ; 
The  North,  the  West,  looked  on,  and  knew 

'T  would  turn  by  will  of  the  Supreme. 
The  nation's  sin  a  hundred  years 
Was  doomed  to  cease,  tho'  blood  and  tears 
Should  flow  the  ground  ;  but  slavery's  sin 
Must  sink  beneath  the  battle's  din. 


1^4  J'OEMS    OF  jVElV  ENGLAND. 

A  hundred  times  ten  thousand  graves 
Were  not  too  much  to  ransom  guilt 
Which  Freedom's  loving  souls  did  owe 

To  Afric's  sons,  whose  lives  they  spilt ; 
A  hundred  thousand  mothers"  tears, 
And  fathers',  too,  for  loved  ones  dear 
Were  thrown  into  this  gulf  of  strife. 
As  sacrifice  for  nation's  life. 

The  slave  was  free,  the  storm  was  o'er. 

The  smoke  of  battle  passed  away. 
Now  all  mankind  with  pride  acclaim 

The  worth  and  greatness  of  that  day. 
Time  cannot  banish  from  the  page 
The  country's  crime  of  its  young  age ; 
But  God  will  surely  lift  the  race 
To  hold,  with  all,  its  equal  place. 


LOSS    OF    THE     STEAMSHIP    COLUMBUS, 
JANUARY     i8,    1884. 


THE  winter's  wind  was  roaring  loud, 
The  waves  were  rising  to  the  cloud, 
And  awful  strains  were  on  the  shroud 

Night  filled  with  woe  ; 
Death  was  not  in  the  storm  nor  cloud. 
But  in  an  awfulness  less  proud 
Down  deep  below. 


LOSS  OF  THE  SCHOONER  JOHN  PAUL  145 


And  as  the  waves  rolled  from  the  rock 
The  mighty  steamship  took  her  shock, 
And  all  her  souls  in  death  were  locked 

Among  the  waves. 
And  every  scene  their  sorrows  mock 
And  from  their  helpless  grasp  would  walk 

Above  their  graves. 

Could  old  Columbus  had  the  wheel 
Whose  name  she  bore,  we  trust  and  feel 
That  somehow  rocks  would  shun  her  keel ; 

For  storm  could  not 
Deceive  nor  master  nor  conceal. 
Nor  ocean's  mightiest  waves  reveal 

A  grander  spot. 

But  tempest's  awful  wrath  that  night 
Made  ocean,  land,  and  heaven  affright; 
For  all  the  elements  unite 

The  world  to  'larm. 
And  in  the  battling  of  their  might 
Tremendous  were  their  fates  that  night, 

Helpless  man's  arm. 


LOSS    OF    THE    SCHOONER    JOHN    PAUL, 
FEBRUARY    10,    1893. 

THIS  stately  schooner,  staunch  and  brave, 
A  mistress  of  the  ocean  wave, 
So  short  a  pride  and  boast. 
Queen  of  the  hurricane  and  storm. 


146  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


Princess  of  tempest  young  and  strong, 
Lies  shattered  on  the  coast. 

She  fell  not  by  the  winter's  wrath, 
Nor  met  the  cyclone  in  its  path. 

Nor  dashed  on  shore  by  storm  ; 
The  unseen  shoal,  the  rock,  the  reef. 
Were  foes  that  brought  her  years  to  grief, 

She  struck  them  and  was  gone. 

A  St.  Helena  to  her  pride, 
A  Waterloo  where  glory  died, 

There  fell  her  name  so  brave  ; 
Her  scepter  sheathed  in  ocean  green, 
Her  banner  never  more  to  stream 

Upon  the  sea's  wild  wave. 

Victoria  of  New  England  main, 
A  name  in  every  sea  the  same. 

What  did  her  strength  command  ; 
But  in  that  afternoon  her  life 
Was  doomed  to  cease  with  ocean  strife 

Upon  Rhode  Island  strand. 

Ship  of  New  England  genius  strong, 
Ship  of  our  heart's  sincerest  song, 

The  ocean  roams  no  more  ; 
Ship  of  the  wilderness  and  mine. 
The  grandest  of  our  modern  time, 

Now  wrecked  upon  the  shore. 


WINTER.  147 


THE    LIFE    BOAT'S     RETURN    TO     POINT 
JUDITH,  FROM  A  GALE  OF  WIND  1885. 

HAIL  worthy  life  boat  from  the  wastes 
Of  ocean  broad  where  winds  had  chased 
'Mid  reahns  of  winter  strife ; 
Its  fate  was  when  the  lost  discern 
Tempestuous,  and  of  its  return 
Was  doubtful  of  its  life. 

For  winter  ruled  the  awful  wave 
And  seemed  no  mercy  had  to  save  ; 

And  noisy  was  the  storm  ; 
But  its  return  awoke  the  joys 
For  bringing  back  those  gallant  boys 

So  valiant,  young,  and  strong. 

Now  gallant  life  boat  long  we  hail 
Whose  bows  can  smile  beneath  the  gale, 

And  glide  the  raging  wave ; 
For  its  return  made  every  heart 
Give  praises  to  the  boat  in  part 

Who  did  these  heroes  save. 


WINTER. 

\  T  /'HEN  awful  winter  breaths  upon  the  plain 
VV     Like  some  blue  monster  filling  all  the  sky 
A  thousand  sorrows  tend  his  annual  slain. 
And  innocents  beneath  those  sorrow^s  die. 


148  J 'OEMS   OF  NEll'  ENGLAND. 

We  would  not  criminate  ourselves  to  ask 
Why  God  ordained  the  summer  life  to  groan 

Where  pleasure  lives  with  happiness  to  bask, 
And  sings  to  elements  so  like  their  own. 

As  seasons  roll,  life  lives  within  the  cloud, 
And  the  sweet  gales  invite  the  waking  earth. 

Until  the  fields  in  tender  green  enshroud. 
And  all  creation  seems  to  leap  to  birth. 

But  when  cold  winter  in  white  doth  appear, 

While  million  shafts  on  sightless  wings  descend. 

Piercing  the  heart  of  those  gay  seasons  dear 
Until  the  life  on  every  prospect  rends. 


MY    OLD    HOE. 

FAREWELL,  my  faithful,  worn  out  hoe. 
Your  usefulness  is  o'er, 
And  now  I  am  to  lay  you  by 
To  never  use  you  more. 

You  made  the  grass  on  many  a  field 

Wilt  in  the  summer  sun. 
The  corn  and  the  potatoes  grew 

When  you  were  there  among. 

At  morn,  at  noon,  at  night  the  same. 
The  world  more  rich  for  you, 


OUR    COIVTINENT.  i49 


Like  some  strong  arm  that  's  laid  to  rest, 
Like  some  one  good  and  true. 

Good-by,  old  hoe  I  six  summers  I 

Have  used  you  in  the  corn, 
And  many  a  time  I  've  thought  your  fate 

Should  never  have  been  born. 


OUR    CONTINENT. 

IT  makes  the  patriot  bosom  glow 
When  he  beholds  his  nation's  chart 
A  thousand  voices  whisper  low, 

Preserve  it,  boy,  with  all  thy  heart. 

The  life  blood  lifts  our  courage  high, 
Prompted  with  loyalty  and  zeal 

To  stand  by  right,  let  others  try 
To  dare  intrude  its  common  weal. 

We  look  with  pride  on  ocean's  shores 
Where  proud  Atlantic's  billows  fall. 

To  where  the  deep  Pacific  roars, — 
Such  frontage,  we  surpass  them  all ! 

No  other  nation  in  the  world. 

And  scarce  a  record  with  us  left. 

Where  nations  could  their  flag  unfurl 
And  claim  an  ocean  east  and  west. 


150  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

Those  inland  seas,  those  rivers  broad, 
Proud  arteries  of  our  continent, 

No  other  fleet  can  o'er  them  lord 
Unless  consent  by  government. 

Those  mountains,  wonders  of  the  globe. 
Lifting  to  cloud-land,  cold  and  blue, 

Drest  in  eternal  winter's  robe 

With  bases  bright  in  summer  hue. 

Yes,  brave,  eternal,  fixed  for  time, 
The  wrath  of  seasons  and  of  storms 

Cannot  subdue  ;  for  power  divine 

Ordained  and  built  their  lasting  forms. 

Yes,  prairies  roll  o'er  states  that  would 
Give  honor  to  a  monarch's  hand ; 

The  world's  rich  meadow-fields  so  good 
With  grain  and  oxen  fill  the  land. 

Our  continent,  the  land  of  bread, 
The  home  of  liberty  and  life. 

What  foot  can  dare  one  fabric  tread, 
What  sober  mind  engulf  in  strife  ! 

While  all  is  well  upon  its  breast, 
Now  look  again  from  sea  to  sea, — 

Look  north  and  south,  look  east  and  west, 
'Tis  but  a  camping  land  of  free. 

Proud  continent,  forever  here 

Composed  of  more  than  twoscore  states, 


OUR   PRESIDENTS.  151 

Each  one  an  empire,  lost  to  fear 

If  foreign  powers  should  dare  its  fate. 

Now  all  combined,  in  strength  and  youth, 
Will  lead  away  with  flags  unfurled, 

And  make  this  continent  in  truth 
The  bannered  nation  of  the  world. 


F 


OUR   PRESIDENTS. 


IRST  on  the  scene  great  Washington 


Appeared  with  sword  and  pen. 
The  loveliest  hero  of  his  land. 
The  noblest  of  all  men. 

Then  Adams,  with  great  powers  of  state, 

Whose  eloquence  complete 
Made  his  young  nation's  trembling  fate 

Stand  firmer  on  its  feet. 

Then  Jefferson,  both  great  and  wise. 

Assumed  the  nation's  helm, 
A  just  reward  for  glorious  deeds. 

No  grander  in  the  realm. 

Next  Madison,  with  zealous  hands 
Assumes  the  White  House  chair, 

And  with  the  same  high  purpose  grand 
Looks  to  the  nation's  care. 


52  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

Monroe,  with  dignity  and  grace, 

Of  patriotism  long, 
Steps  in  the  elevated  place 

With  courage  stanch  and  strong. 

And  far  and  wide  his  mandate  fell, — 
Old  England  learned  to  kneel. 

And  found  America  could  tell 
Her  how  to  use  the  steel. 

Another  Adams  fills  the  chair. 

The  son  of  him  so  grand, 
Whose  life  was  marked  by  patriot  care. 

And  loved  by  all  his  land. 

Then  Jackson  next,  a  hero  long 
From  bloody  fields  of  strife, 

And  lived  as  brave,  as  true,  and  strong 
As  Ajax  lived  his  life. 

Van  Buren  then  comes  up  before 

The  people  with  a  stride. 
And  his  command,  from  shore  to  shore, 

The  millions  all  abide. 

Next  Harrison,  one  month  in  power. 
When  Tyler  takes  command, 

And  progress  fills  the  flying  hours 
Of  this  most  happy  land. 

Polk  next  appears,  but  slavery's  seed 
Began  to  blossom  fast ; 


OUR   PRESIDENTS.  153 


The  wisest  could  not  well  proceed, 
For  'twas  against  the  blast. 


'fc)' 


Then  Taylor  comes  in  but  to  die, 
And  Fillmore  takes  the  chair; 

He  fills  the  cup  of  slavery's  wrath 
And  bondsmen  to  despair. 

And  Pierce  arrives,  New  England's  boy. 
With  shackles  for  the  slave, — 

A  servant  in  the  South's  employ, 
Pledged  hand  its  cause  to  save. 

Buchanan,  too,  all  lost  to  praise, 
Commands  the  ship  of  state. 

And  war  was  fixing  all  the  time 
He  held  the  trust  so  great. 

Lincoln,  the  people's  candidate. 

Assumed  the  high  control, 
And  mad  secession  fix  their  fate 

And  fast  the  war  clouds  roll. 

They  would  not  stand  the  Northern  will, 
They  broke  the  pledge  of  old, 

And  dared  the  Union's  blood  to  spill 
And  trample  down  the  folds. 

But  slavery  fell,  the  Union  stood, — 
Four  years  the  carnage  flowed ; 

All  hail  to  those,  the  brave  and  good, 
Our  nation's  strength  bestowed! 


154  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

But  Lincoln,  martyred  for  his  deeds, 
The  last  shot  of  the  strife  ; 

His  blood  on  those  that  did  secede, — 
Great  God  knows  every  life. 

Johnson,  less  noble  and  less  wise. 

Fills  the  lamented  place  ; 
But  soon  distrust  in  all  men's  eyes 

And  wrong  things  come  apace. 

Grant  comes,  the  conqueror  of  the  war, 
On  Fame's  red  chariot  borne. 

With  plumes  of  glory  and  a  star 
From  bloody  conquests  torn. 

Hayes,  the  meek  and  patriot  son, 
Succeeds  a  Caesar's  chair  ; 

His  rule  in  state  with  purpose  strong 
For  all  his  country's  care. 

Garfield  rides  in  with  pomp  and  power, 
But  falls  before  the  blade. 

And  Arthur  nobly  takes  the  hour 
With  honor  strong  and  staid. 

Cleveland,  the  mighty  without  deeds, 
Takes  hold  with  courage  strong. 

And  valiantly  the  land  proceeds 
To  march  sedate  along. 

Next  Harrison,  a  grandson  brave, 
Of  that  old  chief  of  yore 


LlAXOLiV  COMING    TO   ILLINOIS. 


Takes  up  the  helm,  but  nothing  grave 
Appeared  for  him  in  store. 

Cleveland  again,  the  second  term, 
Comes  like  a  cloud  of  storm, 

And  as  a  tempest  just  as  stern. 
All  hope  the  day  when  gone. 

McKinley  next  assumes  in  time 

The  presidential  chair, 
To  stop  the  wreckage  and  the  crime 

That  Cleveland's  rule  had  shared. 


LINCOLN    COMING  TO    ILLINOIS. 

THE  winter  storm  had  swept  the  plain 
Like  sea  waves  on  the  distant  main, 
And  every  field  was  cold  ; 
But  o'er  the  blast-worn  realm  so  wide 
Some  had  a  wearied  train  descried, 
When  skies  to  earth  had  rolled. 

Before  the  eve  had  kissed  the  sky 
The  rugged  prairie  team  passed  by, 

With  stalwart  oxen  eight ; 
A  sober  youth  of  giant  form 
With  strength  to  battle  every  storm 

Wielded  the  gourd  so  great. 


156  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

With  this  display  of  rural  worth, 
From  honest  toil,  from  lowly  birth. 

This  mighty  man  of  fate 
Unyoked  his  sore-foot  hungry  herd. 
His  journey  ended,  and  a  word 

He  hails  the  new-born  state. 

At  morn  he  fell  the  rugged  wood 
Which  skirted  on  the  neighborhood, 

To  build  a  house  and  home  ; 
He  broke  the  prairie,  split  the  rail, 
By  time  the  spring  had  filled  the  gale 

Or  summer  birds  had  come. 

Long  will  the  state  of  Illinois 

And  all  the  world  with  them  rejoice 

O'er  those  that  day  moved  in  : 
None  but  his  Maker  krwew  his  worth, 
'T  was  in  his  plan  from  earliest  birth 

To  raise  the  land  a  king. 

As  ancient  Israel  did  of  old. 

Whose  king  was  reared  amid  the  fold. 

To  fill  God's  way  and  will, 
So  out  where  corn  and  cattle  grow 
Where  millions  reap  and  millions  sow 

Once  more  his  purpose  still. 

In  youth  the  mighty  buffalo, 
The  panther,  wolf,  and  bear,  his  foe, 
A  hundred  fears  to  chance, 


THE  HEART-BROKEN'  MOTHER.  157 

But  in  the  primal  scenes  came  out 
A  man  whose  scepter  should  be  stout, 
Slavery's  avenging  lance. 

High  heaven  may  sing  its  victory  won 
Through  this  immortal  farmer's  son, 

From  poverty  to  power. 
Yes  !  will  our  Lincoln's  name  long  live 
Among  the  mighty  whom  God  gives 

Till  time's  remotest  hour. 


THE    HEART-BROKEN     SLAVE     MOTHER. 

\\  ^AY  down  in  slavery's  ugly  days 

V  V     When  crime  was  wild  as  ocean  waves, 
One  deed  survives  for  which  to  gaze 
And  wake  our  mercy  for  the  slave. 

This  oft-repeated  crime  for  years, 

This  auction  block  where  men  were  sold, 

Its  depths  of  guilt  so  deep  appears 

That  age  dims  not  though  deed  be  old. 

One  story  to  the  memory  clings 

Enough  for  every  heart  to  bleed, 
So  dark  revolting  that  it  brings 

A  tear  before  we  scan  the  deed. 

One  day  the  wicked  master  said 

That  he  sometime  must  sell  some  slaves. 


POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


For  they  were  numerous  to  be  fed 

And  what  they  brought  himself  might  save. 

Upon  the  block  a  mother  brought 

With  her  small  boy  a  baby  fair, 
Within  her  arms  he  meekly  sought, 

Of  course,  for  all  his  needs  and  care. 

She  smiled  upon  her  infant  lad 

And  he  returned  it  with  a  kiss. 
He  knew  not  that  her  heart  was  sad, 

For  then  his  days  were  days  of  bliss. 

A  purchaser  walked  up  and  said  : 
"  I  '11  buy  her  for  my  girl,  who  will 

I  think  be  shortly  wed, 

A  list  of  gifts  she  '11  nobly  fill  ; 

That  little  brat  I  '11  give  away 

For  he's  no  good  to  me  or  her." 
A  stander-by  with  spirit  gay 

Quickly  said  :   "  I  '11  take  him,  thank  you,  sir. 

The  mother  heard  the  bargain  made. 

And  soon  the  tears  gushed  warm  and  fast ; 

Her  arms  more  firmly  round  him  laid 
And  kissed  him  thrice  within  that  grasp. 

That  night  she  and  her  little  son 
Were  resting  in  their  usual  place. 

Her  arms  were  loosely  round  him  flung 
While  he  her  bosom  sweetly  graced. 


THE  HEART-BROKEN  MOTHER.  159 

When  slumbers  had  her  eyelids  closed, 
And  dreams  were  rampart  o'er  the  mind, 

That  stealthy  man-thief,  unopposed, 
Stole  that  loved  boy  of  humankind. 

The  mother  wakes  by  time  't  was  dawn 
And  fondles  round  to  find  her  boy. 

With  great  surprise  she  found  him  gone. 
Her  only  hope,  her  only  joy. 


One  shriek,  one  moan,  one  stroke  of  grief, 
Pervades  that  dying  mother's  heart. 

She  falls.     And  death  with  fingers  brief 
Does  up  its  work  and  life  departs. 

And  she  upon  her  pillow  lay, 

A  heart-broke  mother,  for  a  crime 

That  her  offender  ne'er  can  pay 
Through  all  eternity  and  time. 

Now  Where's  the  boy,  the  next  will  say? 

Was  he  the  story  ever  told 
Of  his  dear  mother's  awful  day 

When  she  in  slavery  was  sold  ? 

Could  he  but  know  her  fate,  or  we 

Might  know  the  fate  of  him,  and  grasp 

His  rugged  hand  which  now  is  free. 
As  warm  as  mother  used  to  clasp. 

But  fate  has  sealed,  we  cannot  know. 
But  one  thing  sure  is  in  our  power, 


i6o  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


To  use  the  stranger  well,  and  show 
Regard  for  all  we  meet  each  hour. 

I  cannot  meet  one  of  that  race, 

A  stranger  unto  me,  of  course, 
But  what  this  tale  confronts  my  face, 

And  holds  my  heart  with  might  and  force. 

For  't  would  be  peace  to  use  that  man, 
With  more  than  just  respect  and  love. 

For  such  we  owe,  if  we  should  scan. 
That  cause  of  crime  long  disapproved. 

We  owe  it  for  his  mother's  sake. 
We  owe  it  for  humanity  and  right. 

And  as  a  people,  which  would  take. 
The  sure  foundations  to  unite. 

We  owe  it  to  ourselves,  for  great 
And  mighty  crimes  soften  the  heart 

Of  man,  when  he  doth  contemplate 
And  thank  his  God  he  's  had  no  part. 


LOPE  DE  AGUIRRE'S  MOST  DESPERATE 
ACT  IN  STABBING  HIS  DAUGHTER, 
FEARING  SHE  MIGHT  FALL  INTO 
THE  HANDS  OF  HIS   PURSUERS. 

WHEN   Spanish  tyrants  swooped  upon 
The  new  world  coast,  no  vulture's  greed 
For  prey  was  more  complete,  for  wrong 

And  bloodshed  showed  everywhere  their  deed. 


LOPE  DE  AGUIRRKS  DESPERATE  ACT.  i6i 

This  foul,  dark  leader  of  a  band, 

Whose  hands  red  rapine  dared  to  do, 

Had  massacred  till  all  the  land 

Long  shrieked  with  terror  from  the  few. 

When  royal  troops  pursued  his  host 

But  to  avenge  his  bloody  crimes, 
His  flight  was  past ;  no  grave  or  coast 

Could  shelter  him  and  his  designs. 

This  wicked  man  his  girl  had  brought 

Through  all  his  scenes  of  slaughtering  strife, 

His  own  dear  child,  but  rage  soon  taught 
Him  more  to  love  her  darling  life. 

And  when  he  knew  his  awful  days 
Must  end,  for  death  his  foes  decreed 

On  him,  and  none  could  live  to  praise 

His  own  last  wild  life's  struggling  deeds; 

Then  to  his  own  fair  daughter  said  : 
"  You,  too,  must  die,  or  live  for  men 

More  bad  than  I,  w^hen  I  am  dead; 
For  see,  my  foe  has  filled  the  glen." 

And  with  his  dagger,  grips  her  arm 

And  thrusts  it  to  her  heart ;  she  bleeds. 

And  faints  in  death.      Her  sire  then  w^arms 
The  strife  with  cheers,  till  massacred. 


1 62  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

THE  MOTHER  AT  THE  CRUCIFIXION. 

John   19  :  25. 

[This  piece  was  influenced  largely  by  reading  "  Stabat  Mater."] 

THE  shrouded  sun  o'er  Judea's  hills 
Made  every  heart  of  nature  thrill 
With  silence  great. 
For  mortal  mandate  was  supreme 
And  only  heaven  could  intervene 
Against  the  state. 

For  there  upon  Golgotha  height 
Both  earth  and  heaven  were  to  unite 

In  one  great  scene  ; 
It  was  the  death  upon  the  cross 
Of  Him  to  save  the  world  from  loss, 

With  power  supreme. 

'T  was  He  whose  birth  dethroned  a  star, 
And  shepherds  saw  it  from  afar 

Before  the  morn. 
'T  was  midnight;  and  all  Bethlehem 
Was  shining  with  the  diadem, 

Jesus  was  born. 

In  manger  where  the  cattle  fed 
First  lay  His  little  sainted  head 

On  mother's  arm  ; 
But  in  His  hand  a  sceptre  lay, 
The  wickedness  of  men  to  slay. 

And  save  from  harm. 


THE  MOTHER  AT  THE  CRUCIFIXION.    163 

If  all  would  but  believe  in  Him, 
As  being  more  than  man  or  king, 

Life  to  impart ; 
A  power  to  banish  guilt  away, 
And  to  restore  eternal  day, 

Was  in  His  heart. 

Such  was  the  victim  for  the  cross, 
Such  was  the  dreadful  shame  and  loss, 

To  wicked  men. 
But  such  the  act  for  that  great  age. 
The  crowning  crime  of  every  page, 

But  such  the  plan. 

But  did  the  mother  know  the  will 
Of  Him  that  sent  her  son  to  hll 

The  promise  given  ? 
If  so,  that  loving  hand  must  bound 
Her  heart  deep  with  affection  wound. 

None  know,  but  heaven. 

But  all  that 's  mortal  of  her  soul 
Broke  forth  in  tears  beyond  control, 

For  Him,  her  boy 
Who  was  to  die  without  a  crime, 
Her  darling,  and  her  son  divine, 

Heaven  and  its  joy. 

How  was  her  heart  with  anguish  tossed. 
To  see  Him  raised  upon  the  cross 
And  see  His  tear  ; 


1 64  POEMS   OF  NEW   ENGLAND. 

None  but  a  mother's  breast  can  feel 
That  love,  that  sympathy,  and  weal 
For  children  dear. 

He  looked  upon  her  brow  of  pain, 
His  heart  for  her  was  sore  aflame 

To  see  her  grief. 
Then  turning  with  despair,  He  cried : 
'•  Father,  with  me  come  and  abide, 

It 's  my  belief." 

The  skies  then  shook,  the  earth  vibrates, 
All  heaven  stood  at  the  pearly  gates 

His  hand  to  grasp. 
The  mountains  bowed,  the  rocks  were  rent, 
And  darkness  filled  the  firmament, 

And  all  was  past. 


OUR  NATION'S  DESIGNMENTS. 

OUR  glorious  ancestors  once  said  : 
Now  let  us  build  a  nation  great, 
For  here  a  land  that  can  be  made 
Into  a  free  and  Christian  state. 

If  we  will  only  fix  the  base 

On  which  to  set  our  hopes  so  high. 
Then  be  as  martyrs  for  a  race 

If  George  the  Third  should  dare  defy 


OUR   NATION'S  DESIGNMENTS.         165 

And  as  we  set  the  corner  bounds, 
And  the  foundation  walls  so  new. 

Let  every  day  with  truth  be  crowned, 
That  all  our  efforts  may  be  true. 

May  God  look  from  His  starry  home. 
To  give  us  guidance,  day  by  day  , 

Until  the  harvest  hour  shall  come 

With  sheaves  and  blessing  long  to  stay. 

Those  great  Americans  then  built 

The  bulwarks  for  a  hemisphere. 
And  said  :  Let  every  vein  be  spilt. 

As  sacrifice  for  freedom  here. 

And  to  put  forth  those  mighty  strides, 
They  must  assume  the  helm  command, 

And  to  control — a  gulf  more  wide 
Must  open  'twixt  their  motherland. 


But  to  complete  that  primal  thought, 
So  brilliant  in  the  century  past. 

And  with  such  earnestness  been  fraught, 
How  deep  our  reverence  and  how  vast  ! 

First  mighty  Henry  fired  the  state. 
From  old  Virginia  realm  of  worth  ; 

Then  Adams  made  New  England  great 
And  shouts  a  nation  must  have  birth. 

But  who  shall  plan  the  field  of  strife  ? 
John  Adams  said,  "George  Washington. 


66  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


The  provinces  revived  to  life 

And  took  the  musket,  one  by  one. 

While  Franklin  crossed  the  seas  to  find 
A  friend  in  France,  whose  helpful  hand 

Proved  but  a  friend  to  all  mankind, 
From  every  clime,  from  every  strand. 

And  Morris,  too,  whose  great,  good  name 
Put  forth  his  gold  the  strife  to  aid. 

And  others,  with  less  brilliant  fame 
Assisted,  and  the  nation  made. 

How  now  for  those  who  bravely  bore 
The  heat  of  day,  and  died  to  save 

The  freedoms  of  the  New  World's  shore 
From  its  last  deep,  untimely  grave  ? 

Where  is  the  note  of  praise  to  touch  ? 

Where  is  the  harp  for  us  to  sound  ? 
What  heart  can  give  to  them  too  much. 

Or  fail  with  sweetest  memories  crowned  ? 

A  thousand  fields  may  hold  their  dust. 
Old  Ocean  guard  their  bones  with  care, 

But  we  must  keep  that  sacred  trust. 
No  jot  or  tittle  it  impair. 

For  these  are  not  liberties  that  we 
Can  squander,  and  convey  away, 

But  hold  ;  that  children  may  be  free, 
And  mighty  in  the  coming  day. 


THE  WORLirs  PJWGRESS.  167 


THE  WORLD'S  PROGRESS,  BEGINNING  AT 
THE  BIRTH  OF  WASHINGTON. 

WHEN  Genius  twangs  his  silver  bow, 
What  soul  can  his  high  call  refuse 
To  listen,  as  he  makes  aglow 

The  spirit  of  a  youthful  muse, 
And  more  especial  when  he  sees 

Progress  had  started  at  the  morn 
To  fling  his  banner  to  the  breeze  ! 

When  our  great  Washington  was  born, 
He  made  the  Nations  bow, 
He  built  a  Nation  more, 
With  freedom  did  endow 
To  spread  from  shore  to  shore. 

Upon  Mount  Vernon's  hills  the  plan 

Was  laid  on  that  immortal  day, 
That  then  a  nation  and  a  pian 

Were  born  to  hold  the  grandest  sway 
That  ever  graced  the  mighty  earth, 

Or  gave  to  suffering  mortal  hope  ! 
The  then  Colonial  realm  ga.ve  birth 
And  all  its  galling  chains  were  broke. 
But  royal  eyes  were  dim  ; 
They  could  not  see  the  plan 
That  this  did  mean,  no  king, 
But  chiefs  chosen  by  man. 

But  Progress  saw  the  glorious  star 
Break  forth  in  splendor  on  the  skies. 


1 68  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

To  mortal  vision  't  was  too  far, 

And  far  too  dazzling  to  the  eyes  ; 
He  leaned  upon  his  wand  of  gold 

And  looked  abroad  the  continent, 
As  thoughts  in  his  deep  bosom  rolled 
Upon  its  future  government. 

His  soul  in  silence  heard 
The  pent  up  voices  sound, 
His  breast  with  glory  stirred. 
His  gems  of  worth  unbound. 

Let  me  display  my  jewels  now — 
For  this  will  be  a  land  of  mine, 
And  young  America  endow 

With  arts  that  seem  of  gifts  divine  ! 
But  yet  did  Progress  know  that  war 

Would  rend  almost  his  land  in  twain  ; 
But  yet  he  saw  his  future  car 

Rolling  in  triumph  o'er  the  plain. 
And  as  the  years  go  by, 
He  points  us  fields  anew. 
The  lightning  from  the  sky 
As  servant  for  us  drew. 

Now  steamships  roam  the  awful  deep, 
Swept  by  his  mightiest  gem  of  worth. 

And  iron  steeds  with  hoofs  so  fleet 

That  skim  like  shadows  o'er  the  earth. 

All  this  the  land  of  Washington 
Within  a  century  has  made  ; 


IVASH/^GTOIV  WITH  AMERICA'S  FATE.  169 

All  this  for  us  his  victories  won, 
All  this  upon  his  birth  was  laid, 
And  Progress  loves  his  land, 
He  loved  it  then  and  now  ; 
He's  gathering  with  his  hand 
More  laurels  for  our  brow. 


WASHINGTON  WITH  THE  FATE  OF  AMER- 
ICA. 

AMERICA,  where  was  thy  fate 
When  waveclouds  spread  the  shore  ? 
Did  Washington,  the  chief  of  state, 
Have  your  sweet  life  in  store  ? 

Did  Washington  hold  in  his  arms. 

And  fondle  with  his  Ipve, 
This  germ  that  every  bosom  warms, 

This  cause  of  Heaven  above  ? 

The  world  acknowledges  he  did, 

His  enemies  acclaim, 
He  acted  as  Jehovah  bid. 

He  fought  without  a  stain. 

In  the  reverse  of  battle  might 

On  White  Plains  he  foresaw; 
At  Flatbush,  too,  he  left  the  fight, 

'T  was  wisdom  to  withdraw. 


170  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

At  Brandywine  and  Germantown 

He  kept  the  cause  in  view, 
He  fought  that  victory  might  crown 

His  efforts  just  and  true. 

All  winter  in  that  freezing  camp, 

At  Valley  Forge  he  holds 
Our  glorious  cause  with  dying  ranks. 

Or  sick,  heart-broken  souls. 

Yet  with  a  stanch,  unfaltering  hope 
He  trusts  that  heaven  will  smile. 

For  dawn  comes  when  the  night  is  broke 
The  world  to  reconcile. 

And  as  the  dark,  cold  hand  of  woe 

Was  risen  o'er  his  camp. 
He  saw  the  vast,  uplifted  blow 

To  aid  his  stricken  ranks. 

With  hope  anew,  with  banners  high, 
•     He  dares  the  field  once  more. 
And  plans,  and  fights,  and  fortifies. 
Till  battle  days  were  o'er. 

And  on  the  fatal  Yorktown  hill 
Our  fate  resplendent  shone. 

Its  brilliancy  the  world  did  thrill. 
Its  glory  was  our  own. 

There  from  the  hands  of  Washington, 

He  gave  it  to  his  land, 
And  we  transcend  it  to  the  sons. 

And  they  it  must  command. 


THE   UNIOiY  MUST  NOl    DISSOLVE.     171 


THE  UNION  MUST  NOT  DISSOLVE. 

SOME  say  the  Union  will  dissolve, 
The  stateshood  tie  be  broken, 
The  cause  for  which  to  be  involved 
Nobody  yet  has  spoken. 

But  one  great  cause  I  will  declare. 

Why  it  shall  never  sever, — 
It  is  because  each  owns  a  share 

And  all  wall  keep  it  ever. 

The  children  of  New  England  blood. 
The  Western  boys  will  cluster. 

Six  months  this  side  of  either  flood 
For  honor's  sake  will  muster. 

Such  men  I  mean  as  manhood  claims 

One  spark  of  patriot  glory. 
Who  loves  his  brother's  free  domain, 

And  hears  the  ancient  story,     • 

If  forty  farmers  should  agree 
To  bind  themselves  together. 

And  pledge  their  lives  whate'er  it  be, 
To  protect  one  another. 

Now  forty  states,  or  more  or  less, 
Stand  bound,  stand  free  united, 

When  foes  may  dare  one  to  oppress, 
To  rid  the  same  we  're  plighted. 


172  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


Dissolve  !  why  this  unwritten  law 
Binds  us  happy,  makes  us  free. 

Children,  lovers  not  of  war, 
Children,  friends  of  liberty. 

Dissolve  1  why  that  imperils  home. 
Our  wealth,  our  graves,  our  glory. 

Our  children  will  in  truth  see  come 
A  foe  to  rend  their  story. 

The  European  map  will  never 
Guide  the  loving  patriot's  breast. 

For  European  rule  did  sever 
Every  hope  of  Christian  rest. 

Dissolve  the  Union  1  why  the  boys 
And  all  the  girls  are  trying 

To  make  their  nation,  so  their  joys 
Will  brighten  stead  of  dying. 

Dissolve  the  Union  1  wicked  thought  1 

Insane  is  such  believing, 
Destroy  the  toil  a  century  wrought. 

The  thought  sets  all  a-giieving  ! 

The  fathers  they  are  struggling  hard 
To  make  their  children  cherish 

The  glorious  name  we  hold  abroad, 
To  never  let  it  perish. 

The  children  with  contented  gaze 
Look  on  the  school  books  pleasing. 


THE   UmOIV  MUST  NOT  DISSOLVE.     173 

And  bound  each  commonwealth  with  praise, 
And  learn  them  without  teasing. 

Strength,  the  glory  of  all  men, 

The  glory  of  a  nation, 
And  long  as  reason  is  our  gem, 

We'll  guard  the  constitution. 

The  school-boys  on  their  maps  now  ponder 
O'er  the  mountains,  streams,  and  lakes, 

Then  Alaska  way  up  yonder 

Feels  sometime  'twill  be  a  state. 


Yes  !  each  breast  is  silent  lifting. 
Silent  loving,  silent  knowing 

That  their  country  is  still  driftinc 
Onward,  upward,  ever  going. 


And  each  father,  mother,  brother, 
Sister,  and  of  them  who  come 

Proudly  says,  we  '11  hold  together, 
And  have  one  united  home, 

Have  a  home  where  armies  never 

Can  swoop  down  and  make  us  slaves. 

Yes,  we  are  trying  and  we  '11  ever 
Be  a  nation  strong  and  brave. 


174  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


NATIONAL  ELECTION   DAY. 

HOW  vast  the  labor,  and  how  great 
When  this  proud  Nation  pours, 
Her  suffrage  for  a  magistrate. 
To  rule  from  shore  to  shore. 

How  vast  the  day's  work  is,  when  done, 

In  every  point  of  view  ! 
But  let  us  first  behold  the  ones 

Who  all  the  business  do  ! 

When  thirty  million  men  prepare 
Themselves  to  vote  that  day. 

Each  true  heart  hoping  they  will  wear 
The  plumage  of  the  fray. 

Look  on  the  broad  Atlantic  shore, 

A  hundred  cities  go  ; 
And  on  the  vast  interior,  more 

Than  twelve  times  this  can  show. 

The  gulf,  the  lakes,  the  w^estern  deep, 

The  proud  Pacific  bounds, 
A  million  homes  where  mountains  sleep 

Upon  their  duty  found. 

A  thousand  rivers  and  their  banks, 

Rejoicing  in  the  day  ; 
Ten  thousand  valleys  join  the  ranks, 

Ten  thousand  hills  obey. 


THE  AMERICAN  INDEPENDENCE.       175 

And  all  the  realm  becomes  astir, 

When  thirty  millions  move, 
The  highest  gift  on  him  confer  ; 

Let  Christendom  approve. 

And  of  our  day's  work  see  the  power, 

Entrusted  to  the  hand 
Who  happily  may  gain  the  hour, 

Their  country  to  command. 

No  king  beyond  the  seas  can  boast 

Of  such  a  realm  as  ours; 
From  tropic  waves  to  arctic  coast, 

From  snow  to  land  of  flowers. 

And  all  the  realm  with  one  intent, 

And  on  one  day  they  make, 
Some  citizen  -a  president, 

To  rule  four  years  its  fate. 


THE  AMERICAN  INDEPENDENCE. 

MAY  I  compare  this  great  event 
Unto  an  awful  storm  and  blow. 
That  swept  with  force  the  continent. 
More  than  a  hundred  years  ago  ! 

It  overturned,  as  were  the  trees 
That  were  of  an  exotic  birth. 

No  plant  that 's  set  by  king's  decrees, 
Could  flourish  then  and  grow  to  worth. 


176  POEMS   OF  NEIV  ENGLAND. 

All  laws,  all  rule  from  loyal  hands, 
Were  doomed  at  certain  time  to  go  ; 

The  storm  had  pierced  the  fertile  land. 
And  struck  the  tender  roots  below. 


When  sprouts  began  to  green  again, 

They  sprung  from  w^iere  freedom  had  sown 

Our  tears  and  blood,  their  earliest  rain. 
Our  lives  we  paid  for  them  our  own. 

For  this  example,  too,  the  world 

Thinks  on  what  slippery  ground  it  stood, 
The  power  of  kings'  might  instant  hurled 

It  ever  from  the  brave  and  good. 

But  when  we  asked  the  mother  throne, 
For  independence  and  for  power. 

To  be  dissolved  and  stand  alone. 
She  met  us  in  the  battle's  hour. 

Three  mighty  kings  fell  on  that  throne 
Which  turned  a  favor  to  our  fate. 

And  soon  we  wrenched  this  land,  our  own. 
From  off  the  battle-fields  so  great. 

These  kings  that  gave  us  hope  and  strength, 
May  thought  some  day  to  see  us  fall ; 

They  thought  rebellion  had  its  length. 
And  they  would  then  our  land  enthral. 

How  little  did  they  seem  to  know. 

On  w^hat  foundations  we  should  build 


THE  AX,    PLOW,    AND  SPADE.  177 

The  cause  they  'd  crushed  out  years  ago 
Was  the  same  cause  our  hearts  now  filled. 

That  cause  was  freedom  of  the  mind, 
To  speak  and  act  for  other's  weal ; 

And  have  a  land  where  all  mankind, 
Should  in  the  common  interest  feel. 

Their  theme  worked  well ;  may  God  long  bless 

The  fathers  of  our  nation  great, 
For  by  their  wisdom,  blessedness 

Has  come  to  mortal's  low  estate. 


THE  AX,  PLOW,  AND  SPADE. 

I  write  of  the  ax,  plow,  and  spade, 
Their  labors  we  cannot  confine. 
We  know  our  great  nation  they  made 
And  long  with  the  nation  will  shine. 

Two  centuries  ago  we  decreed 
The  forest  must  fall,  and  the  vale 

Be  filled  with  the  maise  and  the  seed. 
With  the  scent  of  the  fruit  on  the  gale. 

The  hills  where  the  giants  of  old 

Have  waved  in  their  grandeur  so  strong 

Did  fall,  and  the  cities  behold 
The  ax  and  its  labors  so  long. 


78  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

While  the  plow,  the  king  of  the  fields, 
No  thought  can  encompass  its  worth, 

It's  linked  to  the  joys  that  it  yields 
The  same  as  the  sun  to  the  earth. 

The  spade  we  now  rally  around 
For  science  has  made  it  its  base, 

And  with  laurels  of  wealth  it  is  crowned, 
Our  nation  its  labor  has  graced. 

Then  shout  for  the  ax,  plow,  and  spade. 
Combined  make  us  happy  and  free, 

We  plow  where  the  use  of  the  blade 
Has  cut  down  the  old  forest  tree. 

Then  hail  to  the  ax,  spade,  and  plow, 
We  cannot  express,  but  can  try 

To  praise  them  if  reason  allow, 

Our  bounties  their  use  does  supply. 

Then  hail  to  the  plow,  spade,  and  ax. 
On  their  worth  the  nation  now  stands. 

When  our  grip  from  their  handles  relax. 
We  must  fade  like  mist  from  the  land. 


MY  MOTHER'S   ROBIN. 

MY  mother's  robin  sings  once  more 
Upon  the  mulberry  by  my  door. 
As  he  has  done  in  years  before 
When  life  was  sweet. 


AfV  MOTHERS  ROBIIV.  179 

When  not  a  sigh  of  grief  was  o'er, 
Or  round  my  feet. 

The  evening  sky  his  voice  would  fill, 
The  morning  hush  would  hear  him  still. 
Proclaiming  his  sweet  notes  until 

The  sun  was  high  ; 
Again  he  comes  with  joy  and  will 

Till  leaves  shall  die. 

She  used  to  call  me  when  he  sung 
To  listen  till  our  cares  would  come, 
For  music  flowed  from  off  his  tongue 

So  rich  and  deep, 
That  fairly  all  surrounding  rung 

With  joy  complete. 

He  'd  sing  when  dawn  o  'erspread  the  skies. 
He  sang  to  bid  morning  rise. 
He  sang  to  close  our  weary  eyes 

To  needful  rest ; 
How  sad  when  this  loved  herald  flies 

For  other's  guest. 

Now  there's  no  mother  ear  to  greet 
His  little  song  so  loud  and  sweet. 
No  one  to  watch  his  tender  feet 

Upon  the  lawn. 
He  sings,  but  all  seems  incomplete 

At  eve  and  morn. 


POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


Near  twenty  years  of  life  now  fled 
Have  seen  this  bosom  cast  with  red 
Pouring  his  song  when  spring  had  spread 

His  map  of  green, 
And  laughing  in  the  skies  o  'erhead, 

With  smiles  serene. 

May  long  he  come  to  hail  the  day, 
And  sing  to  greet  the  sunset's  ray, 
At  noontide  he  to  bask  and  play, 

And  roam  the  fields. 
And  watch  the  sunny  hours  away. 

Till  day  shall  yield. 

When  Nature's  chilly  voice  proclaims 

For  him  to  quit  the  autumn  plains 

And  soar  where  warmer  sunshine  reigns, 

And  groves  to  charm. 
May  he  return  to  me  again 

As  spring  comes  warm. 


THE    WHIP-POOR-WILL. 

THE  whip-poor-will,  a  harmless  bird, 
With  harp  of  God's  own  make. 
Began  to  play  as  evening  fell ; 
And  every  echo  of  the  dell 
Immediately  did  wake. 

The  song  so  rich,  so  sweet  and  gay, 
All  nature  seemed  to  hear  ; 


THE  IVHIF-FOOR-IVILL. 


i8i 


The  branches  with  the  leaf  half  grown, 
The  roses  with  the  bud  half  blown 
In  silence  seemed  to  cheer. 

The  moon's  delightful  shadows  fell 

Across  the  field  of  song, 
Nowhere  but  what  the  night  was  gay, 
Nowhere  but  what  his  precious  lay 

Was  ringing  loud  and  strong. 

The  hills  where  once  primeval  woods 

The  weary  steps  trod  there, 
How  beautiful  it  was  to  walk, 
With  jolly  friends  to  laugh  and  talk. 

But  yet  there  was  a  care. 

The  silent  voices  of  the  breast 

Invoked  a  prayer  for  Him 
Whose  little  bird  had  made  the  night 
The  greatest  source  of  our  delight, 

To  hear  him  sweetly  sing. 

The  cares  which  morrow's  sun  might  brin; 

Weighed  light  within  the  scale  ; 
For  who  could  slumber  when  a  song 
So  rich,  melodious,  and  long 

Was  filling  fields  and  vale  i 

But  bowing  to  superior  laws 

We  must  the  night  give  in, 
And  leave  the  little  bird  in  praise, 
While  my  poor  heart  a  prayer  doth  raise 

To  God  who  made  him  sino-. 


1 82  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


BENJAMIN  HARRISON,  1886. 

THF".  name  of  Harrison  sounds  well, 
It 's  music  in  the  ear, 
Its  echo  rolls  through  every  dell, 
On  every  hill  we  hear 
His  glorious  name. 

We  've  heard  of  his  ancestral  stock, 
In  days  when  we  were  small. 

His  grandsire  helped  the  \vorld  to  shock 
In  Independence  Hall, 
So  great  in  fame. 

That  deed  so  deep,  sublime,  and  grand 

No  pen  its  import  tell. 
No  tongue  can  voice  the  happy  land 

On  which  its  influence  fell. 
Of  untold  worth. 

In  time  a  son  was  born  to  him, 

No  royal  pomp  attends, 
But  grew  to  be  more  than  a  king ; 

For  freemen  found  him  friend 
From  earliest  birth. 

Again  the  glorious  name  of  old 

Burst  like  a  meteor's  light 
Through  winter's  skies  so  dark  and  cold, 

To  cheer  the  rayless  night 
Till  more  shall  rise. 


AUTUMN-  WINDS.  183 


Beneath  the  rosy  fingered  arch, 

On  that  November  day, 
New  England  millions  took  the  march, 
As  freemen  for  the  fray, 
With  shouts  and  cries. 

The  stanch  old  west  beheld  the  dawn 
With  molten  flags  displayed. 

The  cold  Nevada's  snow-capped  horns 
Laughed  'neath  the  morning  shade, 
For  proud  were  they. 

And  as  the  sweet  Pacific  dells 
Were  beaming  with  the  light. 

Those  yoemen  rang  the  Cleveland  knells 
Until  they  heard  the  fight 
Had  won  the  day. 


AUTUMN    WINDS. 

THE  chilly  breath  of  autumn  bears 
A  thousand  deaths  an  hour, 
To  all  the  fields  in  beauty  fair 

In  verdure  and  in  flowers  ; 
The  sparrow  sits  on  naked  limb 
And  tries  his  summer  song  to  sing 
In  tune  once  more. 

Oh,  could  he  see  the  vernal  feet 
Of  spring,  fair  maiden,  come. 


1 84  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

How  would  this  little  sonojster  greet, 

For  she  would  cheer  his  home. 
A  thousand  smiles  would  fall  around 
And  green  once  more  would  be  the  ground 
In  vernal  store. 

But  winter's  icy  hand  will  shake 

Its  scepter  in  the  sky, 
And  all  the  charms  of  summer  break 

That  partly  round  us  lie. 
Soon  the  white  storm  will  fill  the  cloud, 
And  all  the  prospect  deeply  shroud 
With  saddest  gloom. 

When  we  behold  the  withered  leaf 

Fall  from  its  fruitless  bough, 
The  bough  may  moan  o'er  winter's  grief. 

But  springtime  will  endow 
It  with  a  new  green  robe  of  flowers 
And  leaves  to  charm  the  sylvan  bowers, 
And  joy  untomb. 

Not  so  when  mortal  loved  ones  go. 

The  roses  of  our  hearth  ; 
They  leave  through  annual  rounds  the  woe 

That  blurs  the  joys  of  earth. 
Spring  wdll  return,  but  mother  dear 
Will  never  come  my  home  to  cheer, — 
Can  it  be  so  ? 

A  thousand  homes  now  bear  the  grief 
That  is  my  lot  to  share  ; 


THE  PLAA^ET  SATURN.  185 

Oh,  could  she  as  the  vernal  leaf 

Come  forth  in  springtime's  air  ! 
How  would  we  all  rejoice  again 
With  smiles  as  doth  great  nature's  plain, 
And  all  below. 

But  yet  we  know  there  is  a  land 

Where  seasons  never  harm. 
And  grief  can  never  touch  that  band 

Nor  damp  a  heavenly  charm. 
There  is  the  place  to  look  for  those 
Whose  lives  did  constantly  disclose 
The  truths  divine. 


THE  PLANET  SATURN. 

THOU  little  star  in  cloudland  blue, 
Now  shining  on. my  path  of  snow. 
What  hands  gave  thee  thy  silver  hue 
Of  such  unchanging  brightness  glow  ! 

We  read  of  thee  in  ages  past. 

When  ancients  watched  thy  nightly  rounds, 
And  yet  with  all  thy  years  so  vast 

Are  still  with  beaming  beauty  crowned. 

Around  thee  constellations  roll 

*0f  mortal  star-built  form  with  shield. 

As  if  to  guard  thy  mighty  soul 
Across  the  vast  ethereal  field. 

*Constellation  of  Orion. 


1 86  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


"  When  God  ordained  us,"  said  the  star, 

"  He  gave  us  as  a  heritage. 
His  Hfe,  his  brightness,  and  his  law, 

To  shine  for  man  through  every  age : 

•'One  grand  pulsation  of  his  arm 
Threw  us  afar  in  realms  to  be 

His  footlights  and  away  from  harm 
And  neighbors  to  eternity  ; 

"  And  when  he  speaks  our  light  will  shut, 
For  all  the  worlds  will  him  obey. 

And  he  in  glory  then  will  set 
And  give  to  you  eternal  day." 


GRANT'S  BURIAL  HONORED  BY  HIS  FOE. 

WHEN  Johnston  and  Buckner  stood  by  the 
tomb. 
Where  the  nation's  great  hero  was  laid, 
The  nation  was  there,  and  deep  was  the  gloom,. 
For  the  country  like  children  was  made. 
While  Sherman  and  Sheridan  stood 
In  tears  at  the  sepulchre  door, 
The  four  rolled  the  casket  in  place, 
Their  strength  all  united  did  grace 
The  deep,  silent  scene  of  Columbia  in  grief. 

The  men  who  had  met  with  armies  of  power 
In  the  dreadful  contentions  of  strife, 


LIBERTY'S    VISIT.  187 

Had  met  then  in  grief  the  country's  sad  hour, 
O'er  their  hero's  departure  from  life, 
The  sorrow  of  a  people  free. 
Then  stood  united  and  in  tears. 
The  world  was  bowed  in  silence  great, 
O'er  him  so  vast  in  war  and  state, 
For  all  mankind  could  truly  hail  him  chief. 


LIBERTY'S    VISIT    TO     THE    FAMILY    OF 
NATIONS. 

WHEN  war  upon  her  realm  had  ceased,. 
And  victory  rung  his  silver  knell, 
She  took  her  glorious  wand  of  peace. 
To  visit  where  the  nations  dwell. 

She  knew  their  mighty  gates  were  strong, 
The  turrets,  too,  were  manned  with  power^ 

Oft  had  she  passed  them  in  days  gone, 
Reproved,  dishonored,  every  hour, 

But,  earnest  to  see  if  her  name, 

Were  in  the  circle  far  away, 
Where  spirits  of  the  world's  domains. 

Hold  festal  rites  and  regal  sway. 

The  summer  had  its  beauty  spread. 

O'er  her  thirteen  young  commonwealths  ; 

Each  one  a  maiden  sweet  and  glad. 

Each  one  with  girlish  blooming  health. 


1 88  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

And  when  the  day,  with  lance  of  gold 
Had  pierced  the  orient  skies  so  dark, 

And  all  the  realm,  with  day,  beholds, 
Freedom  takes  her  immortal  start. 

The  hills  of  Vernon  rich  with  bowers, 

The  rivers,  rolling  gently  by 
With  bank  decked  in  a  wealth  of  flowers, 

Columbia's  goddess  mounts  the  sky. 

And  as  she  cuts  the  morning  gale, 
A  plume  would  drop  in  every  clime. 

And  realms  her  glorious  flight  would  hail. 
And  greet  her  course  so  high,  sublime. 

She  lifts  with  grace  when  worlds  are  dim. 

And  fading  in  her  flight  away. 
She  trusts  upon  her  matchless  wing. 

To  soar  where  countless  planets  lay. 

When,  lo  !  she  sees  the  deep  green  sphere, 
Rising  with  grandeur  and  with  grace  ; 

And  sees  her  starry  folds  so  dear. 
Flaunt  in  their  high  appointed  place. 

There  nations  sit  in  conclave  grand, 
There  hangs  the  shield  of  ages  past. 

There  was  her  own,  with  every  land 
For  more  to  come,  the  walls  were  vast. 

Gently  beyond  the  battlements. 

She  folds  her  wearied  wings  to  rest : 


LIBERTY'S    VISIT.  189 

While  spirits  of  the  continents, 
Hail  her  as  one  divinely  blest. 

In  grandeur  there  sat  hoary  Time 

With  eyes  undimmed  by  centuries  long  ; 

W'ith  form  gigantic  and  in  prime, 
And  with  the  nation  's  holding  song. 

Some  were  of  stature  short,  but  fair  ; 

Some  were  with  mighty  years  bent  down  ; 
While  others,  deep  with  grief  and  care, 

Wearing  a  pagan  star  and  crown. 

All  for  her  young  and  gracious  hand, 
Reach  out  to  grasp  for  honor's  sake  ; 

For  by  her  presence  all  felt  grand, 

To  hail  such  handsome  nymph  of  state. 

She  bowed  to  Time,  whose  hand  was  law ; 

And  thus  addressing  him  she  spoke  : 
"  Father,  my  long  sad  years  of  war 

Have  brought  me  empire,  fame,  and  hope. 

"And  may  I  so  arrange  with  state. 

To  ever  be  beloved  and  good  ; 
For  none  can  have  the  name  of  great, 

Unless  always  with  virtues  stood  ? 

"This  sceptre  is  no  grace  to  me. 

Unless  it 's  for  defence  and  life  ; 
Our  object  is,  get  rich,  be  free. 

And  try  to  avoid  all  chance  of  strife. 


190  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


"And  as  I  gaze  these  ancient  halls, 

Long  of  renown,  of  thoughts  less  grand. 

May  I  inspire  some  joy  for  all, 

Some  word  for  these  that  have  command  ! 

''  For  those  that  hold  the  helm  of  state 
Must  not  be  tyrants,  nor  be  slaves ; 

Eut  steer  for  the  most  noble  fate, 
And  try  the  multitude  to  save. 

"  For  God  demands  from  those  in  trust, 
To  be  like  Him  in  all  their  ways  ; 

For  at  our  hands  He  will  and  must 
Condemn  us  or  reward  with  praise. 

''And  if  we  sin  with  knowledge  given. 
How  can  our  nation's  glory  stand  ? 

For  nation's  sins,  in  sight  of  heaven, 
Must  sure  be  punished  by  His  hand. 

^'  My  shield,  my  badge,  my  country's  pride, 
That  find  their  place  on  yonder  wall, 

God  will  remove  when  truth  has  died 
And  honors  from  our  nation  fall." 

Sweet  Liberty  sits  down,  and  Time, 

With  reverence  for  his  guest,  bends  low; 

Whose  age  can  span  the  stars  that  shine, 
And  saw  the  heavenly  system  grow. 

"  Dear  Madam,  it 's  with  deepest  joy 
That  I  o'er  this  conclave  command ; 


LIBERTY'S    VISIT.  19] 

That  I  may,  to  your  sweet  employ, 
Offer  my  counsels  and  my  hand. 

"It's  not  for  me  to  judge  in  haste. 

Nor  tread  once  on  your  shield  and  crown  ; 

But  it 's  a  sorrow  and  a  waste 

For  me  to  see  empires  pulled  down. 

"  I  've  long  been  wearied  to  behold 
A'ast  nations  loose  their  grip  and  fall ; 

For  'tis  those  fatal  sins  of  old 

So  oft  have  ravished  these  my  walls. 

"And  as  you  by  experience  stand. 
Forget  not  here  how  others  fell ; 

For  when  the  sceptre  from  thy  hand 
Is  gone,  the  world  may  bid  farewell. 

"  For  God  and  all  his  minor  powers 

Know  your  foundations  and  how  built; 

He  knows  your  wearied,  lonesome  hours. 
The  nights  of  pain,  the  carnage  spilt. 

*•  Your  wisdom  of  unrivaled  grace 

Suit  well  this  pleasant  home  and  scene, 

And  will  great  God,  with  kindly  face, 
Look  on  your  principle  supreme  !  " 

Young  Liberty  must  now  return. 

And  with  a  gracious  bow  to  all, 
She  leaves  the  court  with  less  to  learn 

And  more  to  know  by  her  short  call. 


192  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

And  swift  as  streaks  of  morning  light 
She  glides  the  firmaments  at  will, 

And  long  before  the  starry  night 
She  folds  her  wing  on  Bunker  Hill. 


THE   BURIAL  OF  GRANT,  AUGUST  8,  1885. 

I    CANNOT  forget  that  long  summer  day 
When  I,  reflective,  sat  alone,  and  heard 
The  mighty  cannon  thundering  far  away. 

Whose  many  voices  our  New  England  stirred. 

I  "11  ne'er  forget  that  day,  and  millions  more 
Remember,  too,  that  solemn  day,  like  me, 

As  our  great  nation  wept  from  shore  to  shore 
O'er  the  last  rites  of  him  that  fought  us  free. 

The  Nation's  greatness  was  around  his  tomb, 
A  hundred  cities,  draped  in  mourning,  wept, 

A  million  hearths,  like  mine,  were  hushed  in  gloom, 
A  million  homes  heard  prayer,  and  men  unslept. 

For  each  sad  bosom  knew  his  deeds  too  well ; 

The  triumph  of  his  arms  had  made  them  great, 
And  all  there  is  within  our  souls  must  tell. 

And  rank  him  second  both  in  war  and  state. 

And  so  as  life  glides  down  its  changeful  banks. 
Or  as  the  generation  silently  decays. 

We  ne'er  forget  the  burial  of  our  Grant, 

Whom  years  to  come  will  never  cease  to  praise. 


THE  NATIONAL   FLOWER.  193 


THE    NATIONAL    FLOWER. 

WHEN  the  springtime  glads  the  hillside 
And  the  birds  begin  to  sing, 
Under  leaves  all  crisped  and  withered 

Little  purple  buds  begin 
To  rejoice  beneath  the  sunbeam, 

To  make  glad  the  naked  bower, — 
Little  rugged,  sweet  arbutus, 

Destined  for  the  nation's  flower. 

What  a  record  has  thy  story 

When  our  nation's  life  began. 
Early  on  that  sacred  morning, 

W^hen  our  fathers  bravely  ran, 
'Neath  their  feet  thy  little  blossom 

Greeted  them  at  daybreak's  hour  ;  — 
Yes,  a  thousand  mouths  would  answer, 

This  we  call  the  nation's  flower. 

When  they  fell  on  that  green  meadow, 

On  the  plains  of  Lexington, 
Did  their  carnage  give  thy  beauty 

As  it  o'er  thy  petals  run  ? 
Or  did  morning  hues  and  sunset 

Paint  thy  blossom  in  that  hour. 
Knowing  that  the  sons  of  freedom 

Would  install  thee  nation's  flower? 

Yes,  the  thousand  eyes  beheld  thee 

Twining  'round  their  swords  and  guns  ; 


[94  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

Eagles  made  those  wreaths  of  glory, 
For  those  first  fell,  valorous  sons 

Plucked  thy  tender  blooms  from  mosses, 
From  the  dry  leaves  of  the  bower, 

From  the  hills  of  sweet  New  England, 
For  'twas  then  the  nation's  flower. 

If  the  battle-fields  could  thunder, 

If  the  dead  could  rise  to  tell. 
If  old  ocean's  brave,  that  slumber. 

Could  one  mighty  anthem  swell. 
All  would  shout  for  sweet  arbutus 

With  an  universal  power ; 
Liberty  would  smile  to  sanction 

It.to  be  the  nation's  flower. 


OUR    BEST    MEN. 

SOME  of  our  great  are  emblem  of  the  stream 
Which  takes  its  rise  in  the  remote  unseen, 
And  struggles  onward  gathering  every  hour 
In  depth  and  volume  and  in  current  power. 
Or  plunging  o'er  the  rocky  cliff  until 
The  voiceless  w^ood  does  with  its  thunder  fill. 
Thence  flowing  onward  growing  day  by  day 
Until  its  vastness  seems  the  world  to  sway. 

I  mean  that  man  is  born  of  low  decree, 
In  boyhood  days  he  's  small,  he  cannot  see 


OUR   BEST  MEN.  195 

Much  import  of  a  life,  but  living  on 
He  finds  a  channel  guiding  him  along, 
Until  the  vastness  of  his  power  he  feels 
How  many  small  things  larger  ones  reveal. 

Our  best  of  men  were  once  a  rivulet  gay, 
Young,  pure  in  life,  and  frolicsome  in  play. 
Untaught  to  know  as  they  pass  down  the  vale 
What  springs  of  influence  would  unite  to  hail. 
And  bear  them  company  the  woods  to  cheer 
Their  onward  march  to  something  more  sincere. 

No  man  that 's  born  was  ever  born  as  great 
As  he  will  be  some  fifty  years  more  late. 
And  whomsoever  is  born  of  full  force 
I  would  prefer  to  keep  from  out  his  course, 
Nor  trust  my  fate  upon  such  reckless  waves. 
For  treacherous  might  the  channel  be  to  save. 

Man  like  the  stream  must  first,  be  small  then  grow 
And  widen  out,  till  the  proportions  show 
That  such  a  life  from  humbleness  has  come 
Must  humbly  meet  eternity's  vast  main. 

Man  is  a  stream  in  every  sense  and  truth, 

One  in  old  age,  and  one  in  early  youth, 

Tho'  grown  to  be  a  river  and  a  power 

From  springs  that  meet  him  every  day  and  hour. 

All  men  start  well,  but  somehow  fate,  or  chance, 
Or  some  tree  falls  to  clog  up  with  its  branch, 
While  others  seem  to  push  the  leaves  away 
And  flow  on  gently,  strengthening  every  day. 


196  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

Man  should  begin  his  life  first  very  small, 

Much   like   the   stream,   round  rocks  and   hillocks 

crawl, 
And  be  obedient  to  the  good  that  guides, 
As  narrow  banks  may  push  the  little  tide. 
Yet  ever  laughing  o'er  its  rocky  bed 
Nor  cares  at  night  to  rest  its  joyful  head. 
But  talking,  walking,  singing,  onward  go, 
Gaining  new  power  till  broader  manhood  show. 


THE    INDIAN'S    RETURN    TO    HIS    BIRTH- 
PLACE. 

I  BENEATH  an  aged  oak 
^  When  morning  fields  w^ere  gray, 
They  saw  an  Indian  stand 
With  unstrung  bow  in  hand, 
Seeming  in  spirit  broke. 

The  children  hustle  down. 
They  crowd  the  outside  door, 
From  house  to  house  they  spy, 
The  people  all  ask  w^hy 
The  Indian  came  to  town. 

For  long  the  time  had  been 
Since  these  old  forest  lords 
Had  trod  those  happy  vales, 
Or  scanned  those  hills  and  dales. 
Long  homes  of  other  men. 


THE  INDIAN'S  RETURN.  197 

But  grandpa  said,  "  Be  still  ; 
I  '11  go  and  see  the  man, 
For  I  remember  well. 
And  can  the  story  tell 
When  they  lived  on  the  hill." 

The  Indian  said  :  "  These  scenes 
Look  very  natural  now. 
I  left  them  when  a  boy ; 
To  hunt  was  my  employ, 
And  fish  upon  the  stream. 

"  But  you  white  men  had  come 
And  bought  our  lands  away ; 
Our  king  said  we  must  go  ; 
It  filled  my  soul  with  woe, 
My  boyish  heart  with  pain. 

"  My  father  took  the  lead, 
My  mother  followed  on, 
We  children  trudged  behind 
Upon  the  paths  that  wind, 
And  sick  were  we  indeed. 

"The  years  have  rolled  away; 
I  've  promised  to  return 
And  look  once  more  upon 
The  spot  where  I  was  born, 
And  did  in  childhood  play. 

"This  hillside  was  my  home. 
The  hearthstone  it  is  gone, 


198  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

The  wilderness  is  dead, 
The  vales  with  corn  instead, 
New  scenes  indeed  have  come. 

"  But  yet  the  distant  sea, 
The  sand  bank,  and  the  pond, 
The  old  gray  rocks  I  've  climbed 
In  summer  and  springtime. 
Appear  most  dear  to  me. 

"The  white  man's  hand  cannot 
Disturb  these  old  way-marks  ; 
They  may  up-turn  the  soil, 
Hew  down  the  wood  by  toil. 
But  time  these  scenes  have  got. 

"  I  never  shall  come  more. 
My  day  is  almost  past. 
My  arm  once  strong  is  weak. 
My  step  is  incomplete, 
My  vision  not  of  yore. 

"  I  love  these  rugged  scenes 
My  childhood  spent  among ; 
But  I  shall  look  no  more 
Upon  the  fields  and  shore, 
The  hillside  and  the  stream. 

"  They  're  homes  of  other  men, 
I  cannot  hunt  there  now, 
I  'm  like  this  aged  oak, 
With  limbs  distort  and  broke 
To  never  grow  again." 


ADDRESS  TO  EGYPTIAN  OBELISK.       199 


Grief  rends  his  stony  heart, 
Tears  roll  upon  his  cheek, 
His  bow  and  arrow  broke, 
He  left  them  by  the  oak. 
With  sorrow  did  depart. 


AN  ADDRESS  TO  THE  EGYPTIAN  OBE- 
LISK ERECTED  IN  CENTRAL  PARK, 
NEW  YORK. 

COLUMBIAN'S"  shore,  proud  relic,  hails 
Thy  ancient  presence  to  her  stand  ; 
She  thanks  old  ocean  and  her  gales 
For  bearing  thee  from  foreign  land. 

That  thy  gigantic  brow  might  rise 

Amid  a  realm  of  cities  round, 
Whose  awful  summit  from  the  skies 

Might  watch  again  the  peopled  ground. 

We  trace  along  the  stream  of  time, 

Where  its  deep  freighted  waves  have  passed  ; 
Tho'  flowing  through  another  clime 

We  stand  with  awe  o'er  visions  vast. 


To  think  when  first  thy  granite  crest 

O'erlooked  the  young  vales  then  of  earth, 

They  were  the  first  where  man  was  blest, 
And  first  where  art  had  sprung  to  birth. 


POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


Is  not  thy  grandeur  then  of  fame 

The  sweetest  in  our  thoughts  enrolled  ; 

And  when  we  scan  thy  honored  reign 
The  noblest  deeds  of  earth  unfold, 

Could  age's  muse  have  been  enthroned 

Upon  thy  mossy  brow  to  pen, 
Oh,  what  a  record  would  have  owned 

For  the  enduring  use  of  men. 

Thy  mammoth  form  was  borne  from  where 
The  rocks  that  Syene  mountains  grace, 

Then  floated  down  the  Nile  with  care 
And  rose  upon  thy  destined  place. 

Full  sixteen  centuries  did'st  thou  stand 
Before  the  temple's  golden  blaze. 

When  thou  wast  borne  to  other  lands 
To  give  to  other  deeds  thy  praise. 

And  then  some  nineteen  centuries  more 
Thou  stoodst  to  greet  great  Caesar's  fame, 

Whose  arms  had  conquered  every  shore 
That  girds  the  most  remotest  main. 

Now  here  thou  standst  amid  the  free 
On  western  shores  so  lately  known. 

Sprung  up  beyond  a  trackless  sea 
And  to  the  highest  glory  grown. 

Now  watch  for  us,  thou  mighty  spire. 

O'er  realms  where  vision  holds  command. 


ADDRESS  TO  EGVPT/AA^  OBELISK 


Until  the  last  pulsation  tire, 
And  all  returns  to  desert  sand. 

Oh,  couldst  thou  speak !  what  worlds  of  love 
Would  from  thy  granite  lips  reveal. 

What  streams  of  hidden  greatness  pour, 
Now  evermore  to  man  concealed. 

Thou  once  hast  seen  Sesostrus'  car, 

Drawn  by  his  conquered  kings  of  earth, 

Whose  nations  he  had  bled  in  war. 

Once  famed  for  honor,  power,  and  worth. 

Thou  sawst  his  kingdom  crumble  down 
Like  sandhills  in  the  whirlwind's  power ; 

And  many  another  as  bright  crown 

Wilt,  like  the  tenderest  summer  flower. 

Thou,  too,  hast  seen  the  Nile's  dark  wave. 
Thronged  with  the  fleet  of  many  a  king. 

And  history  has  forgot  the  brave, 

And  bards  cannot  their  triumphs  sing. 

And  oftentimes  around  thy  base 

Has  war's  red  chariot  rolled  with  speed ; 

And  every  century  kings  would  grace 
Thy  ancient  realm  w^ith  mighty  deeds. 

Oh,  what  a  change  the  years  have  seen. 
Since  thy  stupendous  form  was  raised  ; 

The  valleys  and  the  plains  then  green, 
And  thriving  nations  gave  thee  praise. 


POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


Thou  'st  watched  the  generations  die ; 

Thou  'st  watched  the  season's  endless  birth, 
Until  around  thee  deserts  lie, 

And  man  and  cities  bowed  to  earth. 

And  Time's  unconquered  arm  had  swung 
His  hoary  sceptre  o'er  thy  fields. 

All  but  thy  own  strong  life  succumb, 
That  human  genius  had  revealed. 

And  now  again  in  western  worlds. 

Thy  granite  structure  reared  once  more, 

To  w^atch  Time,  as  his  arrows  hurl. 
Along  our  grand  Columbia  shore. 

Thy  mossy  foot  now  treads  our  lawn, 
By  times  the  morning  dews  are  dry  ; 

But  Hope  and  Progress  fill  the  morn. 
And  Peace  enshrouds  the  purple  sky. 

She  sits  enthroned  on  hills  of  gold. 
Round  whose  foundation  is  the  dust 

Of  heroes,  whom  our  sphere  controlled. 
For  God  in  judgment  said  they  must. 

And  Freedom,  too,  is  round  thy  base, 
Sounding  her  harp  of  heavenly  strain ; 

And  all  the  far-off  human  race 
Rejoices  in  her  precious  name. 

Now  guard  us,  grand  old  shaft  of  fame, 
Thou  'It  find  us  but  a  nation  young, 


THE  WONDERS   OE  ETiVA.  203 


A  century's  smile  is  on  our  plains, 
Our  future  is  by  bards  unsung. 

Now  watch  us  till  the  years  shall  turn 
Our  fertile  fields  to  desert  sands, 

The  fate  of  eastern  shores  to  learn, 
Is  left  at  thy  supreme  command. 

And  when  our  last  sad  morn  appears, 
And  freedom's  shrine  be  torn  away. 

Bend  down,  and  from  our  land  in  tears, 
Seal  it  upon  thy  brow  to  stay. 

There  will  the  loyal  eagles  light, 

With  wreaths  of  ever-blooming  flowers, 

With  thee,  companion  of  the  night, 
Through  all  eternity's  sad  hours. 

Then  watch  us  as  thou  watched  of  yore, 
The  fate  of  other  lands  to  see. 

Watch  these  sweet,  peaceful,  sunny  shores, 
The  bannered  shores  of  liberty. 


THE   WONDERS    OF    ETNA. 

WITH  all  the  wonders  of  that  Hand 
Which  made  the  plains,  the  hill,  and  shore; 
In  all  His  works  may  Etna  stand 
Supreme,  unrivalled  evermore. 


204  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

These  awful  piles  of  earth  that  rise 

Burning  in  cloud-land's  distant  heights, 

With  girdling  zones  ascend  the  skies 
Of  deserts,  flowers,  and  winters  white. 

Around  its  summit  glaciers  shine, 

While  torrid  flame  burns  in  the  storm  ; 

Untrod,  unsought,  high,  and  sublime, 
The  battling  elements  keep  on. 

Warm  streams  roll  down  the  mountain  side. 

Reviving  nature's  thirsty  soul. 
As  if  eternal  hands  preside 

To  make  the  scene  complete  and  whole. 

Grand  and  alone,  eternal. stands 
Upon  its  wave-girt  pillars  deep ; 

Its  awful  thundering  shakes  the  strand  ; 
Its  awful  flame  in  cloud-land  keep. 

This  pile  of  rock  and  flame  so  vast. 
Great  watch  tower  of  Sicilian  clime; 

Long  will  our  wonderment  be  cast 
Upon  its  awfulness  sublime  ! 


THE   OLD    SHIP    CONSTITUTION. 


T 


HE  old  Constitution,  the  ship  of  our  glory, 
So  long  in  defense  of  the  nation  has  been, 


We  cannot  forget  her,  so  sweet  in  the  story, 

Whose  cannon  have  wrought  such  victory  for  men. 


STRANDING    OF   THE   KEARSARGE.     205 

We  cannot  remember  the  days  of  her  worth; 

But  her  battles  yet  live  on  the  page  of  the  free, 
The  blood  on  her  decks  is  the  pride  of  the  earth. 

The  fame  of  this  warship  the  pride  of  the  sea. 

Her  name  to  New  England  is  sweet  as  the  rose, 
She 's  dear  to  the  South  for  her  battles  to  save. 

The  new  sovereign  West  her  pride  has  disclosed 
For  the  ship  of  the  battle,  the  ship  of  the  wave. 

Ten  thousand  new  voices  now  ring  the  broad  nation 
To  save  the  old  vessel  from  wreckage  once  more, 

Her  name  and  her  fame  are  in  part  a  salvation, 
While  Liberty  honors  from  shore  unto  shore. 

Raise  high  o'er  the  vessel  the  stripes  and  the  stars 
Which  she  bore  from  the  battles  in  days  that  are 
gone; 

Keep  her  long  a  memento,  a  gem  of  the  wars, 
A  relic  that  always  our  country  will  'dorn. 


THE    STRANDING    OF    THE    KEARSARGE. 

On  Roncador  Reef,  in  the  Caribbean  Sea,  Two  Hun- 
dred AND  Fifty  Miles  from  Panama.  She  Sunk 
THE  Alabama  Near  Cherbourg,  France,  Sunday, 
June  19,  1S64. 

THE  mighty  warship,  Kearsarge  great. 
In  naval  war  so  sweetly  sung, 
W'hen  o'er  the  land  the  battle  cloud 
Was  lowering  down  with  voices  loud 
Of  treason,  death,  and  war. 


2o6  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


Too  well  the  Union's  loving  heart 
Remembers  those  eventful  days, 
To  once  forget  the  mortal  foe 
She  met  and  conquered  with  a  blow 
On  ocean's  wastes  afar. 

Her  valor  then  rang  round  the  globe, 
Her  deed  the  many  kingdoms  praised, 

Her  glory  was  the  nation's  boon, 

Her  strength  dispelled  the  thickening  gloom 
That  hung  above  the  seas. 

Warship  of  honor  and  renown, 

A  jewel  in  the  naval  host ; 
The  millions  who  have  gone  before. 
The  millions  now  on  Freedom's  shore, 

Her  victories  have  pleased. 

The  unborn  millions  yet  will  learn 

The  story  of  her  battle  deeds. 
And  sweetly  may  her  glorious  fame 
Link  with  the  everlasting  chain 

That  'round  the  mighty  weaves. 

She  fell  not  in  the  strife's  red  hour; 

She  felt  the  right  hand  of  no  foe. 
No  tempest  doomed  her  mournful  fate, 
But  like  the  valiant  and  the  great 

She  falls,  but  not  to  die. 


THE  RIVERS   OF  NARRAGANSETT.      207 


THE    RIVERS    OF    NARRAGANSETT. 

FIRST  among  these  little  rivers 
That  are  better  known  in  fame, 
Is  the  placid  Pettaquamscutt, 
Calmly  flowing  to  the  main. 

Though  no  wheels  it  turns,  yet  ever 
Will  it  bring  up  legends*  true, 

That  which  time  will  fail  to  sever 
Of  the  lore  it  passes  through. 

In  the  days  when  British  order 
Hung  as  chain  from  sea  to  shore, 

There  upon  its  peaceful  border 
Sprang  a  romance  sad  of  yore. 

Oft  has  this  repeated  story 

Been  the  joy  of  some  to  tell. 
And  from  it  remains  a  glory 

For  the  banks  where  it  befell. 

But  toward  its  fountains  pearly, 

Mat-ta-tux-et  is  its  name. 
Destined,  too,  in  times  so  early 

To  command  a  wreath  in  fame. 

Next  the  Sau-ga-tuc-ket  proudly 
Gives  a  million  wheels  their  force. 

And  its  cataract  then  loudly 

Sings  its  requiem  long  and  hoarse. 

*Beautifiil  Hannah  Robinson. 


POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


And  Chip-pu-xet  from  the  valley 
Of  the  woodland  flows  along, 

And  but  little  notice  rallies 
To  assume  a  name  and  song. 

On  it  flows  through  swamp  and  meadow 
Till  it  finds  Lake  Worden's  shore, 

Then  the  Charles  'neath  cedar  shadows 
Drains  the  lake  without  a  roar. 

The  Shick-a-sheen,  or  Misk-ian-za, 
Winds  along  through  wood  and  plain, 

Doing  little  deeds  of  duty, 

Adding  something  to  our  fame. 

The  Ash-a-way  and  Tom-a  quay 
Skim  their  mossy  beds  with  glee, 

The  Beaver  and  the  Es-qua-paug 
And  Wood  river  roll  as  free. 

Eich  of  them,  a  thousand  shuttles 
Or  ten  thousand  spindles  turn, 

Till  the  Paw-ca-tuck's  deep  water 
Bears  them  down  to  ocean  stern. 

Whose  great  name  is  also  ancient. 
Oft  dividing  towns  and  states, 

Flows  this  mighty  stream  with  patience 
In  its  winding  bed  so  great. 

Narragansett  brooks  and  rivers, 

Useful  as  they  flow  along. 
Of  our  wealth  full  half  the  giver, 

Mighty  agents  deep  and  strong. 


SAMUEL    T.    PERRY.  209 

SAMUEL    T.    PERRY. 

Killed  at  the  Battle  of  the  Wilderness,  May  12,  1S64. 

LONG  shall  I  remember  this  sad  story, 
The  saddest,  too,  of  all  my  early  life, 
It  was  a  deed  to  help  our  nation's  glory. 

When  it  was  struggling  on  red  fields  of  strife. 

My  schoolmate,  Sam,  had  gone  to  war  that  morn- 
ing, 
The  second  time,  while  all  the  night  before 
His  father  watched  him  till  the  sky  was  dawning 
And   then  said,  "  Sam,  the  clock  has  now  struck 
four."' 

He  sprang  from  off  the  lounge  and  bade  farewell 
To  father,  mother,  and  they  wept  that  morn  ; 

But  he  so  strong  would  not  emotions  tell. 
And  soon  from  dear  ones  was  forever  grone. 

His  mother  filled  with  grief  came  to  our  house 
And  said,  "Well,  Dorcas,  Sam  has  gone  to  war; 

Poor  child,  I  feel  so  bad  for  him,  why,  Rowse, 
I  loved  that  boy  too  well  to  die  in  war," 

And  broke  down  deep  in  tears.     My  father  stern 

As  man  need  be,  went  out  into  the  barn, 
And  cried  there  like  a  boy.     My  mother,  too,  did 
learn 
The  awfulness  of    loved  ones  torn  from   loving 
arms. 


210  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

I,  young  in  years,  to  grief  a  stranger  too, 
Escaped  the  room,  and  hid  myself  away. 

Until  those  solemn  hours  of  morning  flew, 

And  April's  sun  had  reached  its  height  of  day 

Six  weeks  had  gone,  when  awful  tidings  came 
That  Sam  had  fallen  on  Appomattox  field. 

The  last  great  struggle  on  the  battle  plain 
When  mad  Secession  finally  did  yield. 

She  came  again  and  said,  "  Poor  Sam  is  gone, 
They  say."     My  parents  to  console  her  grief 

Said  that  before  another  day  be  born 

Some  better  news.     "  But  no,  it 's  my  belief, 

"  For  't  was  but  yesterday  I  sat  alone 

And  heard  a  sound  fall  on  the  chamber  floor, 

Then  something  said,  '  There,  Sam  is  gone. 
He  's  dead,  and  I  shall  never  see  him  more.' ' 

Days  passed  away ;  but  grief  with  her  had  torn 
Her  brightest  hopes  away,  and  age,  withal, 

Came  step  by  step,  until  her  mind  had  worn, 

And  left  a  mental  wreck  o'er  her  proud  soldier's 
fall. 

His    home    was    one,   while    thousands,    thousands 
more 
Shared  the  same  fate  of  boys  and  brothers  dead. 
Whose  "graves  unknown"   now  rest  on   Southern 
shore, 
And  for  humanity's  great  cause  had  bled. 


ROU'LAiVD    G.    HAZARD. 


Years  sweep  along,  and  soon  we  all  shall  be 
In  the  cold  realm  of  iinrelentless  age, 

And  then  a  step  out  on  eternity's  dark  sea, 
Where  deeds  we  hope  will  blazon  every  page. 


ROWLAND  G.   HAZARD. 

A   SOCRATES  of  men, 
A  life  of  noble  deeds, 
A  mind  enriched  with  gems, 
A  country's  friend  in  need. 

He  turned  when  Sumter's  gun 
Alarmed  the  Christian  world, 

For  something  must  be  done. 
Or  the  old  flag  be  furled. 

His  years  for  battle  past, 

But  yet  his  mind  was  strong  ; 

He  feared  no  ocean  blast. 
To  aid  the  Union  on. 

Grand  thoughts  were  all  his  life. 
His  record  fully  made  ; 

Bright  sunset  o'er  the  strife 
Of  his  long  pilgrimage. 

His  age  almost  could  span 
His  glorious  nation's  years  ; 

Think  when  his  life  began, 
A  land  like  childhood's  tears. 


212  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


Since  those  young  years  of  pain 
What  wondrous  changes  wrought. 

It  seems  as  if  the  brain 

Of  genius,  man  had  bought. 

These  mighty  works  of  art 

All  come  within  his  days, 
And  he  appeared  a  part 

Of  them,  and  of  their  ways. 

His  mind  matured  with  age, 

The  firmaments  his  field ; 
Each  sphere  for  him  a  page, 

Thought's  loftiest  heights  revealed. 


LINCOLN    LEAVING   ILLINOIS. 

SECESSION  flag  was  almost  swung, 
Her  note  of  battle  almost  rung, 
The  enemy  was  great; 
The  old  thirteen  are  falling  off, 
The  words  of  Washington  they  scoff, 
When  Lincoln  left  the  state. 

He  'd  been  called  to  the  White  House  chair, 
His  throbbing  nation's  fate  to  care, 

And  be  his  nation's  friend. 
Some  thought  his  country's  life  was  past. 
And  it  must  go  before  the  blast, 

For  who  could  it  defend  ? 


LINCOLN  LEAVING   ILLINOIS.  213 

Secession  said  he  should  not  take 
His  oath  to  be  the  first  of  state ; 

For  they  should  bar  the  way ; 
But  Lincoln  left  his  state  the  same, 
Trusting  in  the  Almighty  name 

That  right  should  win  the  day; 

And,  fearless,  took  his  precious  life 
Within  his  hand  and  dared  the  strife. 

For  deep  was  treason's  plan, 
And  dreadful  was  his  country's  hour. 
And  mighty  was  the  slavery  power, 

No  eye  but  God  could  scan. 

It  was  not  that  old  prairie  team, 

But  'twas  the  steed  of  steel  and  steam 

That  bore  him  to  his  post. 
In  poverty  he  sought  the  state. 
He  proved  to  be  the  good  and  great 

And  sovereign  of  the  host. 

Unknown  he  came,  beloved  he  went. 
To  guide  the  helm  of  government 

Through  war's  tremendous  storm. 
They  knew  him  not,  but  found  him  out 
To  be  the  loyal,  firm,  and  stout, 

A  leader  built  and  born. 

His  old  white  prairie  team  is  done. 
And  hushed  forever  slavery's  gun. 


214  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

But  long  his  memory  be. 

Ages  shall  pass,  but  ever  bright 

Will  be  the  deeds  he  wrought  for  right, 

Making  his  country  free. 


JOHN   BRIGHT. 

LET  Albion  blood  and  Celtic  tongue, 
In  every  clime  rejoice  ; 
For  England's  Christian  lord  becomes 
The  praise  of  English  voice. 

For  he  so  long  the  world  has  graced 

With  thoughts,  the  brightest  to  endear  his  race. 

Not  scientific  thoughts,  that  bring 

New  laurels  to  a  name  ; 
But  thoughts  beyond  the  thoughts  of  kings. 
Thoughts  to  remove  the  shame 

Of  war's  red  slaughter,  and  no  more 

To  wield  its  sceptre  on  enlightened  shores. 

All  his  long  life  of  labor  vast, 

With  mind  matured  and  strong. 
He  spoke,  the  public  to  recast, 
And  show  that  war  was  wrong. 

The  last  high  round  to  royal  minds 
Appears  unseen,  so  helpful  to  mankind. 


The  dreadful  curse  of  war,  the  rage 
Of  savage  men,  should  guide 


NAPOLEON  BONAPARTE.  215 


New  minds  in  the  arising  age, 
To  nobler  modes  decide, 

Than  the  red  havoc  of  a  brother's  life 
Most  rashly  slaughtered  in  victorious  strife. 

To  gain  some  base,  provoking  end, 

Such  not  the  thoughts  of  him, 
But  spoke  to  be  a  nation's  friend, 
A  man,  but  more  than  king. 

His  voice  is  hushed,  but  lives  in  hearts, 
And  ages  yet  will  his  deep  truths  impart. 

No  monument  is  needed  now 

To  bear  his  memory  on  ; 
No  sweeter  wreath  can  grace  his  brow 
Than  he  has  justly  won  ; 

No  trumpet's  blare  need  sound  his  praise, 
For  in  true  hearts  his  monument  is  raised. 


NAPOLEON    BONAPARTE. 

WE  love  thy  name.  Napoleon, 
For  one  great  deed  of  state  ; 
'T  was  when  thou  set  at  liberty 
Our  Lafayette  who  fought  us  free 
In  battle-fields  with  Washington. 

Your  hand  in  strife  was  full  of  power, 
But  yet  your  soul  could  see 


2i6  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

The  beam  of  justice  and  of  right, 
So  often  far  beyond  the  sight 
In  manhood's  grandest  hour. 

And  for  the  honor  of  a  land 
Which  lay  beyond  the  sea, 
Thou  did'st  do  much  for  glory's  sake, 
And  in  return  a  nation  takes 
Pride  in  thy  royal  hand. 

Thou  knew'st  the  old,  worn  patriot's  life 
Was  lovely  everywhere, 
The  pride  of  Western  shores  to  tell, 
Also  the  pride  of  France  as  well. 
Thou  found  him  in  his  strife. 

And  for  thy  great  humanity 
Thou  brok'st  the  prison  bar, 
And  gave  unto  the  world  once  more 
The  best  of  every  land  and  shore, — 
A  friend  of  Liberty. 


INDEPENDENCE   DAYS. 

HOW  nobly  and  how  good  the  thought 
When  we  review  Colonial  days. 
For  millions  die  remembering  naught 
To  ever  give  one  word  of  praise. 


IIVDEPENDENCE  DAYS.  217 

But  now  may  we  reflect  back  on 

Those  rugged  days  when  awful  strife 

Was  raging  at  the  nation's  morn, 
Demanding  for  their  right  of  life. 

It 's  well  to  look  along  the  line 

Where  triumph  and  defeat  did  lay, 

Nor  bask  where  Trenton's  glories  shine. 
Nor  weep  o'er  Flatbush's  dreadful  day ; 

Nor  skip  the  sanguine  fields  of  strife, 
In  haste  the  Yorktown  fame  to  tell ; 

But  stop  at  Valley  Forge,  where  life 
With  half  its  sorrows  had  befell. 

One  night  on  guard  in  that  old  glen 

Would  teach  us  what  we  never  knew, — 

The  cost  of  war,  the  grief  of  men, 
The  sorrows  of  those  suffering  few. 

Let's  stand  a  moment  there,  and  see 
Where  all  our  liberties  were  pent ; 

Lo  !  we  behold  that  flag  so  free 
Waving  above  our  hero's  tent. 

It  now  appears  as  if  that  sheet 

Were  but  a  danger  signal,  set 
Upon  some  ship's  mast  in  the  deep  ; 

Sunk  down,  but  hope  of  rising  yet. 

We  look  upon  it  as  the  same 

When  seas  of  doubt  and  peril  lay. 


POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


As  did  around  this  ship  of  fame 
In  those  eventful,  early  days. 

But  presently  we  see  arise 

This  sunken  ship,  with  banner  high  ; 
Her  deck  is  bright  with  pearls  of  prize. 

Her  flag  is  lost  in  glory's  sky. 

Besides  the  pearls  are  coral  wreaths, 
All  bursting  forth  with  sweetest  tiowers 

From  every  bud  perfume  does  breathe 
And  eagles  early  seek  the  bowers. 

And  once  more  do  we  look  again, 

And  at  the  helm  is  Liberty, 
In  health  and  beauty,  and  her  name 

Is  woven  in  gems  too  fair  to  see. 

The  spring  gales  from  the  landward  come 
And  brightly  fleck  her  crimson  sea, 

Upon  which  sails  our  ship  of  Fame, 
So  grandly  rose  by  heaven's  decree. 


MY    MOTHER'S    BIRTHPLACE. 

WHEN  summer  spreads  her  vernal  hue 
O'er  wilderness  and  field, 
Who  cannot  praise  the  glorious  view 
Which  Nature's  powers  reveal ! 


3/V  MOTHER'S  BIRTHPLACE.  219 


More  brilliantly  these  views  appear 
In  some  old,  life-long  spot, 

Where  recollections  are  sincere, 
And  cannot  be  foro;ot. 


'5 


Down  where  my  mother's  birthplace  stands 

Seems  doubly  dear  to  me ; 
For  there  her  little  baby  hands 

Played  in  her  girlhood  glee. 

Her  sweet,  young  maidenhood,  as  well, 
Was  passed  with  grace  and  truth ; 

From  infancy  she  grew  to  tell 
These  places  of  her  youth. 

The  brook,  the  swamp,  the  pond,  and  mill, 

Her  garden  and  the  wall ; 
The  bank,  the  ditches,  and  the  hill. 

The  juniper  withal  ;     • 

And  far  be}'ond  the  maple  wood 

The  ocean  sweeps  serene, 
While  many  birds,  with  voices  good, 

Make  morn  and  eve  supreme. 

This  old,  tall  house  was  mother's  home. 

Her  happiest  days  spent  here ; 
With  reverence  would  she  always  come 

For  all  its  memories  dear. 


220  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


SPEECH   OF   LOGAN,   A    MINGO    CHIEF. 

To  Lord  Dun  more,  when  Governor  of  Virginia  in 
1774,  upon  the  Great  Wrong  Received  from 
Colonel  Cresap,  who  Murdered  His  Family  in 
His  Absence. 

^  ^  T^ATHER  !  My  heart  is  sore  indeed, 

Jr    Broke  down  and  trampled,  like  the  weed, 
With  sorrow's  might ; 
Because  my  wife  and  children  dear 
Were  butchered,  when  I  was  not  near, 
In  broad  daylight. 

"The  pale  face  did  the  crime,  and  lo! 
I  am  ruined  by  his  dreadful  blow. 

Untimely  given  ; 
And  long,  dark  nights  have  passed  away 
Since  that  afflicted,  dreadful  day, 

When  all  was  riven. 

"  No  man  can  say  but  what  I  fed 
The  stranger  when  he  asked  for  bread, 

And  used  him  well. 
I  never  closed  my  wigwam  door 
Against  the  cold,  the  sick,  and  poor, 

Such  none  can  tell. 

"  Father,  during  the  bloody  war. 
When  havoc  stalked  the  land  afar, 
I  worked  for  peace  ; 


SPEECH   OF  LOGAN. 


I  advocated  strife  was  wrong, 
I  smiled  to  see  the  battle  storm 
On  the  decrease. 

"  My  love  was  deep  toward  your  race  ; 
I  sought  them,  for  they  seemed  to  grace 

The  very  land. 
Long  years  have  men,  when  passed  my  way. 
Pointed  my  cabin  out,  to  say, 

'There  Logan  stands.' 

"  They  liked  me,  or  they  so  appear  ; 
At  least,  they  had  no  cause  to  fear  ; 

I  hated  wrong. 
I  once  have  helped  you  drive  the  foe. 
That  I  might  better  manhood  show. 

And  live  more  strong. 

"  But  when  the  cruel  Cresap  came. 
And  all  my  joys  of  earth  had  slain. 

My  heart  was  brave. 
I  slaughtered  till  revenge  no  more 
Was  in  my  heart, — deeds  red  with  gore 

My  right  hand  gave. 

"  I  do  love  Peace,  and  do  revere 

Her  sacred  laws  ;  they  're  right,  and  dear 

Unto  my  heart ; 
But  yet  my  hope  has  gone  away, — 
It 's  in  the  grave,  where  loved  ones  lay. 

Ne'er  to  depart. 


222  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


"While  Logan  lives,  he  must  live  brave: 
He'll  never  turn,  his  life  to  save, 

From  any  foe  ; 
For  no  one  mourns  my  lot  to-day, 
They  feel  not  for  my  heart  as  they 

Who  felt  the  blow. 

"  My  blood  now  runs  not  in  a  vein. 
No  child  to  mourn  their  father  slain  ; 

But  Logan  will 
Revere  his  honor;   'tis  his  soul, — 
No  enemy  must  dare  control 

This  heart  till  still ! 

"  Father,  when  spring  returns  again 
To  green  the  wilderness  and  plain. 

No  child  will  come 
To  glad  the  old  parental  roof. 
No  prattling  word,  no  sign  as  proof, 

To  cheer  my  home. 

"  But  Logan  trusts  the  spirit  land 
Will  there  reveal  my  little  band 

Of  faces  sweet.    . 
I  look,  I  feel  the  Spirit's  breath ; 
It  comes  from  shores  that  feel  no  death, 

Realm  all  complete! 

"  I  hear  his  song  beside  the  brook. 
The  very  stars  reveal  his  look, — 
His  voice  is  power ; 


SITTING   BULL.  223 


I  hear  him  speak  amid  the  storm, 
I  see  his  sabre  flash  when  drawn 
In  tempest's  hour  ! 

"  While  Logan  lives,  he  must  live  brave 
He  lives  his  honor  but  to  save, 

As  days  go  by. 
For  truth  and  valor  are  divine  ; 
'T  was  father's  heritage  ;   it  's  mine 

Until  I  die!" 


SITTING    BULL. 

THAT  mighty  warrior.  Sitting  Bull, 
The  Philip  of  the  Western  field, 
Had  long  for  war  and  blood  been  full, 
Did  fall,  and  all  his  nation  yield. 

He  left  his  gun  on  winter's  snow ; 

His  plume  froze  in  that  life  blood  brave 
His  knife  a  spoil  unto  the  foe. 

So  often  caused  a  sinless  grave. 

But  now  his  hostile  life  breathed  out, 

And  all  his  plans  of  savage  years 
Fall  to  the  earth,  yet  firm  and  stout 
Was  his  design,  and  few  his  fears. 

But  who  will  live  to  give  him  praise  ? 
Must  desert  winds  his  requiem  sing, 


224  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


Or  hills  a  lone  lost  solo  raise 


Could  mercy's  sacred  hand  been  taught 
To  set  her  stars  within  his  sphere ; 

Or  thread  the  visions  of  his  thought 
With  her  enlightening  sunbeams  dear ; 

Great  would  his  daring  soul  have  been. 

His  deeds  may  vie  with  noble  birth, 
And  teach  the  bravest  of  our  men 

To  know  of  courage  and  of  worth. 


THE    FALL    OF    WOLFE,     SEPTEMBER     13, 
1759- 

SCARCE  had  the  charge  of  battle  made, 
Scarce  had  old  England's  brave  brigade 
Been  led  upon  the  height. 
Before  their  veteran  chief  was  laid 
Wounded  amid  the  fight. 

Scarce  had  his  mighty  conquering  gun 
E'er  caused  the  blood  of  foes  to  run, 

Or  hope  for  conquest  given. 
Before  the  awful  news  had  come 

That  Wolfe's  proud  breast  was  riven. 

Scarce  had  his  grand  victorious  sheet 
Been  long  unfurled,  his  men  to  greet. 
And  hail  for  valor  past. 


JOHX  LK/CSSOIV.  225 


When  sorrow  pales  their  manly  cheek, 
Amid  the  iron  blast. 

The  beat  of  drum,  the  rush  of  steeds, 

The  falling  ranks,  the  shell-ploughed  mead, 

Daunt  not  the  British  arms. 
But  urges  yet,  where  battle  bleeds. 

With  courage  staunch  and  warm. 

How  goes  the  strife  ?  "  the  hero  shouts, 
With  death's  grip  on  his  bosom  stout ! 

His  colonel  answers,  "  Well." 
Then  death  puts  his  brave  life  fires  out. 

And  victory's  song  doth  swell. 


JOHN    ERICSSON. 

On  the  Removal  of  His  Remains  to  Sweden. 

COLUMBIAN  hearts  of  honor  true, 
Regret  the  thought  of  parting  day, 
With  one  whose  life,  and  genius  too, 
Have  made  their  country  great  in  fray. 

Regret  to  think  that  his  loved  grave 
Will  not  remain  upon  our  shore. 

But  to  return  o'er  ocean  wave 

Unto  the  mother-land  which  bore. 

But  memories  sweet  will  cluster  round 
His  gallant  name,  for  centuries  long, 


2  26  POEMS   OF  NEW   ENGLAND. 

As  one  the  naval  art  did  crown, 

And  made  its  mighty  strength  more  strong. 

This  proud,  unrivalled,  giant  mind. 
Both  spheres  a  legacy  of  worth. 

His  life,  a  gift  to  all  mankind. 

Whom  genius  hailed  with  joy  at  birth. 

How  can  our  bannered  realm  consent 
To  bear  that  dust  of  heroes  fame ! 

Must  chiseled  rock  alone  give  vent 
To  memories  of  his  deed  and  name  ? 

We  love  his  dust,  but  not  because 
He  led  the  strife,  but  gave  us  arms 

To  sooner  crush  the  cruel  war, 

That  w^as  fast  dealing  forth  its  harms. 

His  gallant  warship  pushed  the  foe, 

And  swept  the  cloud  which  hung  around 

The  bleeding  cause,  where  mortal  woe. 
Was  with  a  thousand  chains  borne  down. 

Then,  son  of  northern  seas,  farewell ! 

Thy  royal  domain  loves  you,  too. 
They  '11  have  your  tomb,  but  we  can  tell 

Thy  record  best,  for  such  we  knew. 

Your  mother-land  feels  reverent  now, 
To  bend  above  that  dust  so  great, 

But  liberty  will  deck  that  brow 

With  gems  as  sweet  as  kings  can  make. 


OUR   FLAG.  227 


Farewell !  great  naval  giant,  great, 
And  sovereign  of  its  science  long, 

Both  continents  regard  thy  fate 
As  happy,  great,  eternal,  strong ! 

Our  emblem  bird,  from  mountain  crag. 
Will  soar  across  his  winter  skies. 

And  set  upon  that  tomb  his  flag, 

And  guard  it  with  his  sovereign  eyes. 

Yes,  wreaths  from  far-off  freedom's  strand 
He  '11  wear  o'er  oceans,  cold  and  dark, 

Wove  by  paternal,  loving  hands, 
Mementoes  of  the  patriot  heart. 

Firm  as  his  royal  mountains  stand. 
Firm  as  his  ice  and  rock-bound  coast, 

So  will  his  deeds  and  fame  command 
Unshaken  reverence  of  our  host. 


OUR    FLAG. 

THE  stars  and  stripes  mean  much, 
When  floating  in  the  air  ; 
No  traitor  hand  must  touch. 
For  in  those  folds  is  life, 
'T  was  born  in  battle  strife. 

Those  stars  that  grace  the  sheet. 
Each  represent  a  state 


POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


That  might  a  kingdom  meet, 
The  grand  old  fiag  of  yore, 
The  glory  of  our  shore. 

It  waves  to-day,  more  strong, 
With  giant  greatness  stands. 
It  must  not  wave  o'er  wrong, 
As  it  has  in  the  past. 
When  slavery's  power  was  vast. 

This  flag  must  never  lie, 
'Twas  born  with  honest  blood. 
The  mighty  Lord  on  high 
Was  in  the  plan  that  gave. 
And  caused  the  flag  to  wave. 

'Twas  bought,  and  giv'n  by  them 
Who  died  upon  the  plain. 
Our  stalwart  Christian  men 
Who  loved  the  cause  of  right, 
And  for  it  they  did  fight. 

This  flag  we  love  to-day, 
Was  with  them  when  they  fell, 
It  waved  above  the  fray, 
The  victors  bore  it  off. 
And  woe  to  them  that  scoff. 

The  time,  the  day  is  here. 
Its  victories  are  known  ; 
Established,  far  and  near, 


AT  GENERAL  SHERMAN'S  FUNERAL.   229 


For  peace,  for  truth  and  right, 
And  every  good  unite. 

Its  glory  is  its  own, 
It  has  no  debt  to  pay, 
From  infancy  it's  grown 
To  be  the  banner  sheet 
Of  hemisphere  and  deep. 

It  cannot  be  pulled  down, 
The  continent  says,  "No." 
It  has  an  honest  crown 
To  keep,  it  is  the  pride 
Of  earth,  and  heaven  beside. 

The  flag  our  strength  and  joy, 
Our  glory  and  our  power. 
It  waves  not  to  destroy, 
But  makes  our  homes  so  free 
That  stretch  from  sea  to  sea. 


AT  GENERAL  SHERMAN'S  FUNERAL. 

THE  Union  folds  were  swinging  low, 
His  caisson  car  was  moving  slow  ; 
The  dirge  of  war  was  heard. 
And  millions,  with  a  look  downcast. 
Were  surging  like  an  ocean  vast. 
With  hearts  the  deepest  stirred. 


230  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

But  o'er  the  multitude  of  men 

They  heard  a  bugle  strain 
Peal  forth  the  story,  o'er  again, 

Which  lives  so  bright  in  fame. 
It  was  the  anthem  of  the  free, 
Of  Sherman  Marching  to  the  Sea. 

The  fortress  lit  with  cannon's  flame. 
The  navy  shook  the  neighboring  main, 

The  city  realm  ajar 
With  sword  in  sheath,  with  banners  torn, 
By  veterans  of  his  battles  borne. 

Of  dark,  rebellious  war. 
But  lo  !  above  the  tumult's  din, 

A  tender  voice,  remote. 
Brought  in  that  sainted  battle  hymn 

Of  brilliant,  stirring  note, — 
That  hymn  long  sainted,  yet  to  be. 
Of  Sherman  Marchins:  to  the  Sea. 


LINCOLN  ENTERING  RICHMOND  AT  THE 
CLOSE  OF  THE  WAR,  APRIL  4,  1865. 

THE  gun  in  deep  secession's  hand  was  hushed, 
The  spirit  of  the  stricken  South  was  sore, 
And  great,  rebellious  capital  was  crushed. 
And  torn  her  gates,  and  stained  her  walls  with  gore. 
When  Freedom's  blessed  son  came  in, — 
Not  as  conqueror,  nor  as  king, 
But  meek  and  soft  in  mind 


LINCOLN  ENTERING   RICHMOND.       i^^i 

For  brother's  heart  was  bleeding  there, — 
Their  sins  had  found  them,  and  they  fell. 
The  gaze  of  Justice,  and  of  Mercy's  tear, 
Was  lost  to  them  that  day,  to  either  love  or  fear. 

The  sword  of  mighty  Lee,  so  stern  and  brave. 
Was  sheathed  inglorious  on  Potomac's  bank ; 
A  few  more  suns,  and  that  old  hero  gave 
It  in  surrender  to  the  immortal  Grant; 
His  banners,  which  waved  o'er  the  gates. 
Were  down  as  the  decree  of  Fate, — 
Doomed  never  more  to  rise  ! 
The  broken  bugle  and  the  wheel. 
The  long-worn  musket  and  the  plume. 
Were  in  the  wreckage  on  the  imprisoned  streets, 
While    sorrow's    impress    marks   whatever    objects 
meets. 

Lincoln  the  great,  from  boyliood  to  his  death, 
Whom  God  raised  up  the  Nation's  fate  to  wield, 
And  had  for  four  long  years,  with  bated  breath, 
Given  all  the  movements,  both  in  state  and  field; 
And  when  he  knew  secession's  arms 
Were  wearied  down  with  war's  alarms, 
His  own  pure  heart  was  touched. 
But  when  he  saw  the  enthralldomed  race 
Kneel  at  his  feet,  with  streaming  eyes. 
To  thank  him  for  their  freedom  day,  this  prayer 
Must  his  heart  have  upborne,  sure  the  Great  God 
was  there ! 


232  POEMS   OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

Ten  thousand  freedmen,  reaching  out  their  hands, 
Ten  thousand  women,  helpless  on  the  streets, 
While  hungry  children  cluster  where  he  stands, 
To  give  their  great  deliverer  heart-felt  greet. 
i3ut  over  all  the  sorrows  there, — 
The  death,  the  waste,  the  need  of  care, — 
One  little  act  was  done  : 
The  great  Emancipator  stooped  and  took 
A  slave  child  in  his  arms,  and  with  a  glance 
Mingled  with  smiles,  for  then  high  heaven  did  see. 
And  kissed  its  cheek  in  God's  behalf  and  Liberty. 


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